


Lost and Found

by SaySoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Druid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magic, Teleportation, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaySoul/pseuds/SaySoul
Summary: Poof goes the purple light - teleportation and . . . wait. Zombies?Sciles in TWD XD





	1. Purple Light

"Yes . . . interesting . . ." Deaton murmurs, peering at the object through his magnifying glass. "It appears to be engraved in ancient Greek."

Stiles screws up his nose and folds his arms across his chest impatiently. "Fascinating. Really. Got anything useful for us, doc?"

"Stiles," Scott chides. He nudges his elbow into Stiles' side gently, trying to edge him a little further away from Deaton's form, which is bent over his examination table.

Stiles scowls at him and holds his ground - even though it takes all his strength not to stumble sideways. He starts to tap a steady beat with his foot, mostly just to annoy Scott. After fifteen years of friendship, though, Scott is pretty much impervious to his antics.

Deaton glances up at Stiles, a slight crease working between his eyebrows. "I will work faster without you hovering, Mr Stilinski."

"Right!" agrees Scott brightly. "Text me when you're done?" He grabs Stiles' elbow and tugs him towards the door.

"Whoa, wait! Hang on!" Stiles cries trying, unsuccessfully, to twist himself out of Scott's grip. "You're just going to leave it here? After what happened?" He demands, staring at Scott. "Dude - Isaac almost died."

Scott's expression turns guilty. After a moment of hesitation he releases Stiles and gives a whimsical little sigh. "You're right," he says woefully. "I should stay. Make sure nobody else gets hurt."

Stiles squints at him. "Are you high?" He waves his hand in front of Scott's eyes. "Dude. That thing hit Isaac in a room full of humans. Coincidence? I think not. It probably targets werewolves. You staying here is really not a good idea."

Deaton raises his head again. "He's right, Scott. I don't think you should be around this right now."

Scott wrinkles his nose irritably - and a little cutely, Stiles thinks abstractly. "You just said not to leave it alone."

Stiles beams at him. "Which is what I'm here for, amigo. Don't worry your furry ass, I got it."

Scott frowns steadily at him. "What if it explodes again? What if you need help?"

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket and waves it about in emphasis. "Mobile connection, dude. It's a wonderful thing." He shrugs and punches Scott in the arm as he turns back to Deaton. "Besides, I'm a powerful druid. It can't hurt me."

Deaton raises an eyebrow. "Apprentice druid; in training."

Stiles glares at him and jerks his head slightly at Scott, who is still looking uncertain.

Deaton sighs and lays down the magnifying glass. "Stiles and I will be fine, Scott. Stiles will call you when we're done. Likely in a few hours."

After a long moment of indecision, Scott nods and gives Stiles a manly slap on the shoulder - at least it would have been manly if he hadn't followed it up with a soulful gaze - the silent equivalent of 'I love you, call me'.

Stiles squeezes Scott's wrist and smiles at him a little exasperatedly. "See you in a few hours, dude. Order pizza."

Once Scott finally leaves Stiles turns to Deaton expectantly. "So what are we doing, doc? You gonna destroy the stone?" He reaches out to touch it and gets a stinging slap for his trouble.

"Try not to kill yourself," Deaton says mildly. He lays down the magnifying glass again and straightens up. "Go into the storage closet - the back one - and get me the engraved, ebony chest in the corner." He reaches into his pocket and tosses a bunch of keys at Stiles. "Not the walnut chest. The ebony one."

Stiles makes a face and opens the door of the closet at the back of the room. Walking through, he pushes aside the false back and unlocks a second door with one of the keys. Stiles feels a heavy wave of something go through him as he passes through the doorway. It is some sort of security, but Stiles isn't sure what it targets exactly. Whenever he feels it it doesn't seem threatening, more like a gentle reminder that the place is warded. It also smells a little bit like coconuts, he thinks privately.

The second storage closet is a lot roomier than the first - almost the size of Deaton's main room - but also a lot more cluttered. There are stacks and stacks of books all around the edges of the room, hundreds of really weird objects that Stiles doesn't have the faintest clue about and about five wooden chests on the floor. They are all engraved deeply with spidery letters and runes.

There are two chests of dark wood and Stiles grabs the one in the corner. He huffs as he waddles back into Deaton's office, the chest held like an overgrown toddler in his arms. It is heavier than it looks.

Deaton has donned gloves, goggles and a doctor's mask while he's been gone and is in the process of cleaning the object.

Where before there had been a fist-sized lump of stone covered in moss and soil - Stiles now sees that it is some kind of statuette. The bottom of which is engraved with the writing Deaton had noticed.

"Is that safe?" Stiles asks, setting down the chest. "Touching it like that, I mean."

"Seems to be," Deaton says. He dunks the statuette into a bowl holding some kind of clear liquid. Stiles watches as clumps of dirt separate and drift away from the stone.

"What kind of stone is that?" Stiles asks, peering down at it.

"You'll need to put on some gloves," Deaton says, taking the statuette out again and wiping it down gently with a rag.

Stiles pulls on the latex gloves hanging out their box on the desk with difficulty and irritation. He's never been a fan of tasks that require patience. The second one rips as he is tugging it on, much to his exasperation.

"Take another one," Deaton orders, glancing over. "We can't risk touching it yet."

"How come the gloves are enough protection?" Stiles enquires, pulling on another glove.

"Magic, unlike science, usually requires skin contact to have any kind of effect," Deaton explains. "Open the box, please."

Stiles, finally adequately latexed up - and there are sooo many bad jokes going to waste right there, he reflects, gently slides open the tiny bolt on the chest and lifts the lid. The inside is divided neatly in half - one half containing sealed test tubes of some dark liquid - and the other is filled with small sachets of what look like ground herbs.

He picks one up. A small label runs along one side, neatly spelling out 'pepper'. The contents of the sachet look nothing like pepper - more like very fine sand.

"Pepper?" Stiles wrinkles his nose. "Why do you have a baggie of pepper locked away in your secret storeroom?"

"It's my magical evaluation box." Deaton pushes aside the rag and stands the statuette up. "We will be testing each and every substance in the box on the stone. It will help me determine exactly what kind of spells were cast on it."

Stiles snorts. "Magical Evaluation Box? Laaame. You should call it 'Deaton's box of Determining' or 'Determination' . . . or-"

"Pass me the crushed rosemary." Deaton holds out a hand in Stiles' direction without looking up. "A witch," he murmurs. "Interesting choice."

Stiles rummages through the pile of herbs for a few moments before he finally locates the rosemary. Deaton takes it from him without saying anything and opens it before very gently shaking a few grains onto the head of the statuette. They seem to fizz slightly before stilling.

"Interesting," Deaton remarks, indeed looking rather interested. He pulls a blank sheet of paper out from under something and starts writing.

Stiles rolls his eyes. 'Interesting' he mouths to himself. By this point he's not expecting any answers until the good doctor's done and finished. Getting answers from Deaton is like prising exam papers from Lydia. In short - it doesn't happen until the last possible minute. He idly wonders what the best method would be for extracting information from Deaton in an ideal world. He is slightly torn between Chinese water torture and a healthy dose of weed.

He reaches over and brushes the rosemary off the head of the statue. It is a woman standing with her hands clasped demurely in front of her, dressed in a classic ancient Greek dress. Her hair is piled on the top of her head and her tiny features are symmetrical and dainty.

Stiles wonders why Deaton had called her a witch. There doesn't seem to be anything particularly 'witchy' about her. No black cats or broomsticks, anyway. He can't even really sense any sort of magical vibe off of her.

"She's pretty," Stiles remarks.

"Pepper," Deaton demands, holding out a hand again.

Stiles makes a face and hands it to him. One by one they go through every single sachet in the box. Some herbs react when they come into contact with the stone, but most seem unbothered by the magic.

It seems like hours later when Deaton writes his final notes on a third sheet of paper. "That's half done," he sighs and sits back.

Stiles stares blearily at him, with his chin on the table. "Half?" he demands, grumpily. "Dude, I'm done."

"Which is why we'll be continuing tomorrow," Deaton says mildly. He places the statuette into another box - this one metal - and locks it securely. "It should be safe in there for now. I'll be continuing in the morning. I trust you'll help again?"

Stiles makes a face and stretches widely. "Yeah, yeah - tomorrow. Just not too early, okay? Scott needs his beauty sleep."

He drives straight past his house when he sees that the windows are lit up like Christmas. The pack has obviously decided to wait and ambush him and find out what he knows.

It isn't uncommon for the pack to gather at la casa du Stilinski - what with Malia and Isaac crashing there on and off. Also . . . the twins may have pretty much moved into the basement. Stiles isn't sure, exactly but he's heard noises down there during the night and they always seem to be around. It makes him twitchy - especially whenever he feels the particular urge for some private time.

Knowing Scott, he probably offered the twins Stiles' basement in return for guard-dogging Beacon Hills (and Stiles too, probably).

Back to point, though, Stiles doesn't have the energy to deal with any kind of inquisition tonight, so he drives the extra three miles to Scott's house.

Scott is waiting outside as he pulls up. "We heard you go past the house," he says, smiling sheepishly. "I told the others to go home."

"Thanks, dude," Stiles sighs. "Man there's only so much of watching an inanimate object I can take."

"You were watching Deaton work too," Scott points out. "That must have been fairly interesting."

Stiles side-eyes him. "All right, make that two inanimate objects," he snarks. "Let me in your bed?"

Scott's expression morphs into one of concern. "Of course. We shouldn't have left it all on you, Stiles. But . . . do you know what it is yet?"

Stiles groans and doesn't answer until he has stumbled up to Scott's room and sank onto the bed. "Deaton said we're only halfway through testing it. But it's some kind of statuette. Of a lady." He tugs off his hoodie and throws it across the room.

Scott starts untying Stiles' shoelaces - mostly so he won't just kick them off, thus wrecking the shoes. Or so Melissa says.

Stiles wonders vaguely if his own mom had lived if she would have drilled the same thing into him. He shoves the thought away before it can pain him and concentrates on shoving his jeans down his legs.

When he is finally clad in only a t-shirt and boxers, he crawls under the covers and breathes in Scott's not-entirely-fresh scent on the sheets.

He closes his eyes and snuggles in, listening to the sound of Scott murmuring softly to someone on his phone.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows Scott is climbing into the bed beside him, smelling like citrus and shaking his wet hair everywhere.

Stiles grunts indignantly and shifts closer to the wall. Scott's bed is a single, so every inch of mattress is gold dust in Stiles' opinion. He turns his back to Scott and waits until he's settled in.

They usually sleep back to back, Stiles comforted and safe by the presence behind him and the soft sound of Scott's sleep breathing pattern.

Sleeping with Scott is and always has been incredibly easy to Stiles. It's the only time he ever manages to sleep without his pillow within reach. Scott thinks it's because they've known each other forever and his bed is as familiar as Stiles' own. Stiles thinks it's because he gets pulled into a fevered state and his body has no choice but to succumb to sleep in reaction to Scott's furnacing presence.

Melissa wakes them up in the morning with an exhausted smile. "Morning boys," she whispers. "There's hot lasagne in the kitchen. I've just eaten. Now, I am gonna go straight to bed." She gives them a little, sardonic salute and closes the door again.

Stiles gives a little stretch and sits up. Scott has slid halfway down the bed in his sleep and is now completely ensconced in duvet. His fingers are wrapped around Stiles' ankle a little painfully.

Stiles tries to remember if Scott had done that before the bite or if it's some kind of puppy nesting thing.

He worms his cold toes under Scott's t-shirt, poking firmly against his stomach. "Come on, up and at 'em, bro."

Scott emits a little squeak and a rumble which Stiles supposes could be called a growl if one is feeling particularly generous. Scott edges backwards and curls up tighter.

Stiles goes downstairs and divides the remaining lasagne between two plates, not so much as blinking at the meal. Melissa is one of those people who always believes in having a hot, filling meal after work - even if she finishes a twenty-four hour shift at nine in the morning. Lasagne is one of the less bizarre breakfasts he's had at Scott's.

Scott comes downstairs five minutes later, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head. Stiles chomps down on his breakfast efficiently. He doesn't bother to suggest Scott not come to Deaton's - Scott always tries to be around for pack-related business. He takes his duty as an alpha very seriously these days.

"Did you see my dad last night?" Stiles asks suddenly, realising that he hadn't called to say he was staying with Scott.

Scott nods, mouth full. "I ga' hm a cwall," he mumbles.

"Thanks dude," Stiles nods. His fingertips start tapping to the rhythm of Scott's chewing without thinking about it. Scott looks a little amused, his eyes crinkling up slightly at the corners as he eats, and he slows down fractionally.

Stiles narrows his eyes and gives a pointed sigh. When Scott fails to take the hint he throws his hands up in the air and flails a little. Just for emphasis. "Can we go?"

Scott shrugs and stands up, cradling his still half-full plate against his chest. Stiles loads the dishwasher and sets it, hoping the noise won't wake Melissa. It probably won't. She usually sleeps like the dead after a long shift.

The car ride to the vet's is silent as Scott munches his way contentedly through delicious cheesy, pasta-y goodness and Stiles attempts to order his thoughts. He should have checked in on Isaac, he realises. He'd been hit pretty hard by the blinding flash of purple which had flooded the locker room yesterday. Why hadn't he checked on Isaac?

"Dude, are you okay?"

Stiles glances over at him and notices Scott has finished eating. He is leaning back comfortably in the passenger seat, angled towards Stiles with a slight frown worrying his lips.

Stiles clears his throat. "Yeah. I'm okay. You?"

Scott shrugs. "My pack is safe and together. Despite the scare yesterday everyone's healthy. My instincts aren't exactly making is easy to not be okay."

They fall silent again as Stiles pulls into Deaton's car park, Stiles chewing his bottom lip and Scott watching him closely.

Stiles gives him a shrug and shoves open the door, Scott close on his heels.

They find Deaton in his office, already wearing gloves and a mask. He has the statuette in a bowl of translucent liquid, completely submerged.

"What's occurring, doc?" Stiles pulls on another pair of gloves and offers two more to Scott.

To his bemusement Scott goes straight to the little sink Deaton has in the corner of the office and begins thoroughly washing his hands and arms first.

"Dude . . . we're not exactly about to do a surgery."

Scott casts him an offended look. "Sanitation is important, Stiles."

"Indeed," Deaton agrees, eyes slightly watery with pride. Or he might just be trying not to sneeze - it's a little hard to tell with his mask on.

Stiles sighs. "So what is occurring, doc?"

Deaton motions for them to step closer. "I've put the statuette into some distilled water to make any reactions as pure as possible. Stiles, please pass me a vial of blood marked 'human'."

"Wait, what?" Stiles takes a step back. "You have vials of blood in here? Human blood? What are you, some kind of vampire?"

"Wait, do those exist?" Scott asks, his ears almost visibly pricking up.

Deaton rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to answer that question. Surprise, surprise. "The blood in the box, Stiles. From yesterday?"

Remembering the test tubes of dark liquid in the left side of the box, Stiles twigs. "You're testing blood on it?"

"As you said yesterday, the stone targeted the only werewolf in a room full of humans. We're going to see if it was a fluke. It should react to blood the way it would to any living being."

Stiles pulls out a few tubes. Some have names on them - Bobby, Mattock, Brown, Tate, Stilinski- "YOU HAVE A VIAL OF MY BLOOD?!" he cries.

Deaton pulls off his mask with a snap. "I have a vial of blood of every member of your pack. It has many uses."

"Wha- wh- how . . .?" Stiles splutters. "How did you even get it?" He runs through his mind all the times and places he had spilled blood in Deaton's presence - surprisingly few, unlike Scott - but can't remember anything about Deaton's behaviour that was particularly incriminating. Stiles has never even given blood to a blood bank before, so that couldn't be it. He scowls.

Deaton merely gives him a creepy smile and turns back to the stone.

Stiles exchanges a look with Scott before turning back to the blood. He pulls out a few more bottles and finds some species this time - werewolf, kanima, druid, human . . . He hands Deaton the human one and watches as he carefully directs a few drops into the water.  
There is no reaction. "Well, that doesn't disprove our theory," Stiles remarks.

Deaton 'hmm's and refreshes the water. "Now give me Jackson's blood."

"Jackson's?" Stiles asks, handing it over.

"From when he was a kanima. I want to see if it will react only to werewolves or any magic-based creature."

The stone seems to give off a little puff of purple bubbles as the blood touches the water, but doesn't react in any other way.

". . . Is that a reaction?" Scott asks, frowning slightly.

"Not exactly, no." Deaton looks puzzled. "Stiles, give me Derek's blood. I want to give it as pure werewolf blood as I can and since he has a long bloodline . . ."

Stiles nods. "Got it." He fishes out Derek's blood and hands it over.

There is a loud bang! and a flash of purple light as the blood touches the water and both Stiles and Deaton startle backwards. When Stiles looks at Scott, he sees that he's wolfed out, eyes flashing red.

"What the hell was that?" he demands, keeping a careful eye on Scott.  
Scott closes his eyes and slows his breathing. Within a few moments his eyes are back to normal. He's been getting better at that, Stiles notes. Possibly under Ethan's tutelage.

Deaton leans in closer to the bowl, peering at the stone through the glass, which is now clear again. "That was a far stronger reaction than I thought it would . . ." Deaton pauses and frowns. He swipes the vial off the counter and holds it up. "STILES!" he bellows.  
Stiles jumps and he notices Scott twitch from the corner of his eye. He's never heard Deaton raise his voice before. Well - there is a first for everything, he supposes.

"What?" he snaps, a touch defensively.

Deaton turns to him slowly, his expression furious. "I said to give me Derek's blood. Did you even read the label?!"

"What d'you mean?" Stiles says, taking the tube. "It says-" His jaw drops open as he reads the label again. "Oh. Fuck."

The bottle is very clearly labelled 'Darach'.

He swallows and lays the tube down.

"Is that bad?" Scott asks innocently.

"'You should never mix magical blood with magical objects or spells unless you know exactly what you're doing'," Stiles quotes.

It was one of the first things Deaton had drilled into him when he started their lessons. One of the most important, really.

"And Stiles," Deaton says scathingly, "definitely did not know what he was doing."

Stiles makes a face. "Well, technically it was you who . . ." he breaks off when Deaton fixes him with a piercing stare. "Never mind."

"So what happened?" Scott asks impatiently.

Deaton sighs. "I don't know, Scott." He spreads his hands. "It could be nothing - the stone seems to have settled for the moment, anyway. But - we could have just given it a lot more power. And if we did, then - Darach power is the worst we could have given it."

At that moment Stiles is punched in the stomach. Or at least that's what it feels like - all the breath leaves his lungs in a sudden rush and he bends over double from the impact. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Scott curling up with his hands over his ears. His face is contorting in agony and he is slowly but surely losing control of his human form.

Stiles stumbles over to him. "Scott?" He reaches out to touch him - to try and ground him -

"NO!" Deaton shouts. "Stiles wait-"

Which is the exact moment Stiles' hand collides with Scott's shoulder and the world goes purple.


	2. New Lands

Stiles wakes up to pain. Every single one of his muscles feel like they're on fire. His stomach heaves and he's panting with adrenaline like he's just come off a roller coaster.

He lurches upright and just has time to lean to one side before he pukes onto the ground. He groans and spits, trying to get rid of the foul taste of regurgitation in his mouth.

Stiles blinks and raises his eyes blearily. For the first time he realises it is pitch black, wherever he is. He squints and turns from side to side, trying to catch even a flicker of light - cracks around a door perhaps - but sees nothing. He puts a hand up to his face to make sure his eyes are actually working and accidentally pokes himself in the eye.

"Ouch," he mumbles, closing his eye tightly against the sting.

There is a groan from directly behind him and Stiles freezes.

"Stiles?" Scott whines.

Stiles slumps with relief and swings to face the voice. "Yeah, yeah buddy. I'm here!" He hears the scrape of sneakers against the concrete and Scott groans again. "You - you okay buddy?" Stiles asks tentatively.

"Yeah," Scott gasps. "I think I might have broken my wrist or something - it was just healing up. You?"

Stiles tests his limbs and fingers and toes. They all seem to be working. "I think I'm good. Lucky it was you who broke something, huh?"

Scott huffs lightly.

Stiles sighs and pulls his legs into a different position. "On second thought," he moans as his back twinges with pain, "my muscles are killing me."

There is a pause. "What happened? Do you remember?"

Stiles thinks about it. "I'm guessing magic. And I'm guessing it transported us somewhere. Like a portkey, you know?"

There is an even longer pause this time. Stiles can hear Scott thinking quite clearly. He flings a hand out in Scott's general direction and manages to smack some part of him lightly.

He hopes it was as comforting as it was meant to be.

"Well - we're obviously inside," he beings, gesturing vaguely into the darkness.

"Yeah Stiles," Scott says dryly. "I noticed that."

Stiles huffs, offended. "Well all right Mr Wolfy-Man. What can you smell?"

"Uh . . ." Stiles pictures Scott's nose wrinkling as he turns his head, summoning neighbouring scents to his freaky, geeky nostrils. "I can't smell people. I don't think anyone's been here in awhile. I can smell rats though."

Stiles shudders. "Great, that's just what I want. Some creepy rat crawling over me in the dark. All right, is there a way out anywhere around?"

Stiles feels a hand shove him lightly on the shoulder. "The door might be a good start," Scott teases.

Stiles snorts unattractively. Of course Scott can sense doors. The freak. "All right. Lead the way."

There is hesitation in Scott's voice as he asks, ". . . why?"

"Well, unless you're looking for a giggle, watching me stumble around in the dark," Stiles says sarcastically, pulling himself awkwardly to his feet.

"Stiles." Scott says quietly from the darkness, "Stiles, can you see?"

Stiles freezes. He swallows. "What do you mean, Scott?"

There is a rustle and a scrape and then Stiles can feel the length of Scott’s body standing right next to him. A hand grasps his elbow.

"Look at me, Stiles."

Stiles flickers his eyes to where he hopes Scott's face would be and grabs the hand still clutching his elbow. "It's dark, Scott," he says desperately.

A slow exhale of breath ghosts across Stiles' neck. Scott sounds pained when he speaks. "It's daytime, Stiles. We're in a big warehouse with half a roof. I can see the sun."

Terror grips Stiles and he smacks his hands hard against his face. He rubs his eyes and forces them open with his fingers. His breath is coming in shorter and shorter gasps and Scott's hand tightens on his elbow.

"No, no, no - come on! This doesn't make sense! I can't just be-" he's babbling but he can't make himself stop. "Are you sure it's not just your wolfy senses? I mean come on - it's dark, Scott! Pitch black. There's no way it's daytime."

"Stiles." Scott's hand curls up around his neck and Stiles feels his forehead touch Scott's He closes his eyes desperately and leans into the touch. Scott's fingers run down his neck soothingly. "It could just be temporary. We'll get Deaton to take a look at you, okay? My mom. We'll figure it out." Scott's breath flutters on Stiles' face as he talks. "It was probably 'cos the light was so bright when it flashed purple. Maybe I was blind too and I just healed faster."

Stiles swallows and nods. He wishes he knew the likelihood of that, but temporary blindness wasn't one of the fifty-four-and-counting subjects that had interested him enough to read up on from beginning to end. It obviously hadn't been as fascinating as the history of male circumcision at the time. His fingers are itching for a computer. And then he realises he wouldn't be able to see the monitor and he tenses and sucks in breath and panics.

It only takes a few seconds for Scott to realise he's hyperventilating. Without a word the face against his retreats and Stiles' hands are gently led down to grip his knees so that he is hunched forward. It's the same position his dad has put him in countless times before, gently soothing through his panic attacks, but Stiles is starting to think that having a clear and close sight of the ground was a massive part of why it worked, because the feeling of leaning forwards into that darkness when he has no idea what the hell is there is terrifying him and for a minute he doesn't breathe at all - just stands there choking on the air.

Scott seems to realise it isn't quite working as planned and abruptly hauls him into a full body hug. Stiles gasps and just clings for a moment. It is incredibly good to just know exactly where something is for the first time since he's woken up.

He can feel Scott's chest, his arms, which are twined around Stiles' back, his legs, his head. Stiles closes his eyes and just concentrates on breathing, Scott's voice mumbling nonsensically in the background.

"Okay," Stiles jerks backwards and gives Scott a solid pat on the arm. "Okay, first thing - find out where the hell we are and how to get home." Stiles considers for a moment. "You said no one's been in here for a long time. You said we're in a warehouse. Can you hear anything outside?"

"Birds," Scott says instantly. "I can't hear anything else. Not traffic or anything."

Stiles hesitates. Scott once told him that since he'd been bitten there was always a car or an aeroplane or some kind of engine rumbling away in the back of his head. He said it grew kind of comforting actually, never being completely quiet. Even in the middle of the desert in Mexico he could still hear aircraft.

"No . . . no air traffic or anything?" Stiles checks.

He feels the brush of movement of Scott's arm and he grins despite himself. "Was that a shrug?"

He imagines Scott's answering grin as he replies. "Sorry. Yeah, no I can't hear anything. There's this god awful smell though. Like . . . something rotting."

Stiles sighs. "So we're in the middle of nowhere. I can't see. You can't even use your freaky wolf power to tell where we are. Basically we're screwed." He flings out a hand and manages to catch hold of Scott's wrist. "Lead the way out of here, Wolfman."

Stiles counts thirty-seven steps before they stop and he hears a clang and a creak. Wind blows gently past his cheeks and he barely has time to relax into the feeling before Scott is yanking his wrist away and stifling a groan.

"Scott?" Stiles asks, startled. "What's wrong?" He reaches a hand out and feels the back of Scott's head at about waist level.

Scott shakes his head and pulls Stiles' hand away. "I'm okay. It's just that smell. It's nauseating."

As if to prove the point he moves away and is promptly sick on the ground.

"Ew. I think I feel nauseous too, now." Stiles flails and grabs hold of Scott's jacket and pulls him forwards, away from the smell of vomit, hoping he isn't about to bang his shins on something painful.

Scott goes with him easily. "It's just - it smells wrong," he explains.

Stiles stiffens. "Like kanima wrong?"

"No. Different." Scott swallows. "Worse."

Stiles grits his teeth. "Well as long as it's not nearby - it's not, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay. Um - I know this seems stupid, but - what's the time? How long have we been out?"

"Uh . . ." Scott's wrist twists as he fumbles for something. "Damn. My cell's dead."

"Cell!" Stiles yells. Scott jumps. "Sorry. I'm such an idiot. Why didn't I think of that before?" Stiles releases Scott and pats his pockets, emitting a triumphant cry as he yanks it out. "Here -" he shoves it at Scott. "Does mine work?"

There is a pause. "Yeah, no. This is mega-dead. The screen's cracked in like five different places. Sorry, bro." Scott hums. "Mine might work with a charge, though. I forgot to plug it in last night, so that could be it."

Stiles sighs and takes back his phone. "Well that's a lot of help. What else have you got on you?"

For a few minutes they both search through their pockets. Stiles comes up with a packet of cigarettes, a chocolate wrapper, a pen and a handful of change.

"Dude!" Scott cries, scandalised. "You smoke?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I think you'd have noticed. No, I swiped them from dad the other day. He buys a pack occasionally when he's down. At least it's marginally better than the drink." He rolls the pack in his hand thoughtfully. "You still having trouble with that smell?"

"A bit," Scott says warily. "Why?"

Stiles opens the packet and pulls out a single cigarette. He places one end between his teeth and cups his hands around the other end. Deaton has taught him many things over the course of the six months he has been under his tutelage. It had started from perfecting the art of using mountain ash to protect things - first areas, then eventually moving objects, which is tricky to say the least - and moved on to less useful things like lighting fires. Deaton can’t do it because he isn’t a Spark, which has made this one of the most difficult skills for Stiles to learn. Instead of showing him Deaton has mainly been shoving books under his nose.

 _The Order of Elements_ is, to say the least, not an easy read. There are two dried patches of Stiles’ drool on page 43 alone. The descriptions of how a Spark should light a fire with the power of his - Stiles isn’t actually sure what it is in him that helps him work magic-like things - but anyway the descriptions are overflowing with superfluous words half of which he has to look up every time he reopens the book and in the end he’s not actually sure if he should be concentrating on his mind or his stomach.

Begging usually works though, he reflects. _Please, please work_ , he thinks and blows very softly, bringing the image of a flame to mind. Nothing happens.

"Dammit!" He cries, helplessness filling him. "I managed it on _Tuesday_!" He shoves the cigarette back in its box and into his pocket.

"You were trying to light it?" Scott asks.

Stiles huffs out his breath angrily. "Yeah, not that it matters."

He feels Scott nudge his side gently. "I'm not really much of a smoker anyway, Stiles," he says wryly.

Stiles feels an inane hysteria build up and he barks out a laugh. The thought of Scott in a leather jacket and shades, leaning against his bike, smoking is - ridiculous. "Can you imagine?" he giggles. "Your mom would kill you!"

Scott laughs, but twists a hand in the neck of Stiles' hoodie and shakes slightly. "I'm not sure this is really the time, Stiles."

Stiles thinks of his dad and the fact that he can't see and they don't know where they are and finds himself sobering up pretty quickly. "Right." He swallows. "So I have smokes and a pen. You?"

Scott exhales roughly. "Nothing. Except . . ." He presses something small and cold into Stiles' palm.

Stiles takes it in both hands, concentrating as he feels the edges.

"Careful, it's-"

"Sharp." Stiles realises, "it's an arrow head."

"Yeah." Scott takes it back a little sharply, unhappiness pouring off him.

Scott used to carry around odd little things that belonged to Allison for months after her death. Stiles thought he and Melissa had managed to break him of the habit - really it was just bringing him down - but evidently not.

"Sorry, dude." Stiles feels like crap. He had thought, naively, that Scott was over her death now, almost a year later. He feels like kicking himself at the knowledge that he was just oblivious to Scott's continued pain.

Scott clears his throat. "Right. Anyway, it looks like this warehouse is . . . the only building around. From what I can see from here, anyway. The rest is woods. I'm also pretty sure we're not in California anymore."

Stiles nods and doesn't comment on the change of subject. One thing he can do is respect Scott's privacy. "Yeah, it is a little colder than it should be. Unless . . . it's not like winter or anything, right?"

"Pretty sure it's summer. There are daisies. It's . . . pretty."

Stiles smiles. "So, if you had to guess a state?"

"No idea, dude. It's not like I've ever really travelled, you know?" California boys born and raised, the both of them. Stiles doesn’t think it even occurred to Scott to wonder about the rest of the world before he met Allison. Then he just seemed rather fixated on France.

Scott leads him forward a few metres and then stops. "There's some grass here. Sit down and I'll go have a look around."

Stiles grits his teeth. Sitting down and waiting doesn't suit him at the best of times, but what can he do? He is practically helpless without his sight.

He sits on the slightly dew-damp grass stiffly and concentrates on what he can hear. Footsteps retreating rapidly from where he is, veering off to the left before they fade away. From the sound and his own limited experience, Stiles has to guess the path around the entire warehouse is gravel.

For a few moments there's just silence. Stiles can't even hear the birds Scott mentioned before. Then, very softly, he hears the faint rustle of leaves all around him, moving gently in the breeze.

Stiles shivers slightly as the cool air caresses his bare skin. It is colder here. Colder than it should be on a Californian summer day. He's glad he brought his hoodie to Deaton's yesterday - if indeed it was yesterday. Judging from the slightly disgruntled rumblings of his stomach though, he's guessing it wasn't more than six or seven hours since his last meal. Which was lasagne, he remembers wistfully.

The footsteps start up again then, pounding louder and louder until they stop a metre or so from Stiles. Stiles tenses, half convinced he's about to get clawed or something equally unappealing.

"Relax dude." Scott flops down next to him, blowing out air as he settles. "So, I'm fairly certain this building is the only one around for - well. The only one I can see, anyway." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "I still can't smell or hear anything remotely human. I don't know how far we're going to have to go for help, Stiles. There's not any kind of vehicle around - I can't even smell a fresh water source out here."

Stiles contemplates his stomach for a moment before pursing his lips and nodding. "Okay, we're going to need food and water and something warm to sleep in. Think it'll rain?"

"Not tonight. The air's pretty dry."

"Okay, go see what you can find in the warehouse then." Stiles hesitates. "I mean - I'd help you, but . . ." he gestures helplessly down at himself.

Scott nudges him in the arm. "I don't mind." He heaves himself up and jogs off.

Stiles feels a wave of panic as he realises Scott isn't headed in the direction he thought the warehouse door was in. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. Scott's footsteps falter as he presumably senses Stiles' distress.

"Hey Scott!" Stiles calls. "Don't just skip over anything I haven't mentioned, yeah? Bring back anything you think will be useful."

"Yeah, Stiles," Scott yells and Stiles just knows he's rolling his eyes. He smiles, suddenly overwhelmingly glad that Scott is here with him.

It's a while before Scott returns again and Stiles finds himself slipping into a light doze. It's easier to stay optimistic with his eyes closed. He wonders what his dad's doing. Whether he's frantic with worry yet - whether he even knows his son is missing. It might be days until Stiles manages to get a phone call home. The fallout is going to be hard for everyone at home, he knows - mostly for the betas, who are going to feel very lost without their alpha - but he's not too worried. Lydia is perfectly capable of bringing the pack together under thumb, with Jackson at her back.

Stiles loses himself in visions of Malia and Kira coming to rescue them and doesn't hear Scott's approach until he's almost on top of him. Stiles' heart skips a beat as Scott kicks his stomach lightly with the toe of his sneaker.

"You should be more alert," Scott tells him reproachfully. "It might not be safe out here. We don't know how far these woods go or what lives in them."

Stiles sits up. "Are you talking bear or werecreature?"

"Both."

Stiles sighs and rubs his eyes. Even the thought of encountering another supernatural creature in these woods is giving him a headache. He pushes the thought away. "So what did you find?"

"One tarpaulin, several lengths of rope, one old coat which I think may have been turned into a rag - it's kinda gross. Uh . . . no food or water, sorry. I also grabbed a machete type thing. Figured it might come in handy."

Stiles raises his hand and Scott grasps his wrist and pulls him upright easily. "Thanks. Well don't give me the machete. I'd hate to accidentally chop off one of your arms or something." He pauses. "Although Derek did seem pretty certain it would grow back."

Scott snorts. "Thanks, but no thanks. I wrapped everything in the tarpaulin and tied it to my back with the rope. All you have to do is walk."

Stiles grimaces. "Easier said than done. Care to lend me an arm?"

Scott wraps Stiles' hand around the inside of his elbow and pulls him closer. "Want to pick a direction?"

"I think I'll leave that to you," Stiles says dryly.

"Sure. I'll try and remember to tell you if you're about to crash into a tree."

". . . My hero."

* * *

"Stiles, shut up a minute."

Stiles closes his mouth with a snap, cutting off his monologue about Malia and her newly found penchant for fast food.

Scott is tense next to him, taut as a bow string.

"Scott?" Stiles whispers.

"Sh!" Scott hisses. After a brief pause he snakes an arm around Stiles' middle and lifts him clean off the ground. Stiles squeaks in surprise and grips Scott's shoulder hard.

Scott deposits him back on the ground a few feet away and pulls Stiles' hands away from himself, wrapping them around rough tree bark. "Stay here a moment, okay?" Scott whispers. "I need to go check something out."

Stiles closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the tree, trying not to freak out. He doesn't hear Scott move off, simply senses his presence melt away.

Stiles counts to two hundred and fifty-one before he hears Scott again, whispering in his ear, "Stiles, it's me. I'm gonna carry you again, okay?"

Stiles nods and wraps his arms around Scott's neck, trying not to hinder Scott's movement as he hurries them away from whatever spooked him.

Stiles’ arms are going numb by the time Scott stops and sets him down again.

Scott clears his throat. “We should be safe here,” he says roughly.

Stiles stumbles to get his balance and then gives Scott’s chest a violent slap. “What the hell was that?” he demands, trying unsuccessfully to hide his fright.

Scott grabs his wrist and wrenches it away. “Trust me. You do not want to know.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “I swear to god, if you don’t tell me-” he huffs out an angry breath. “What was it? Was it the - the smell you couldn’t stand earlier?” He waits a few moments for Scott’s response and when it doesn’t come he tries to hit him again.

Scott bats his hand away before his knuckles so much as graze Scott’s hoodie. “Stiles, can you just _stop_?”

“No!” Stiles yells.

“Sh!” Scott grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him. “Keep it _down_.” He sounds desperate and so very scared.

Stiles draws in several uneven breaths, struggling to control his emotions. “Scott,” he says slowly. “I can’t just _stop_. I can’t see and something really freaked you out and you know what? After all the shit we’ve faced - you’re right, I _don’t_ want to know what still has the ability to freak you out, but I need to! Scott, I need to know! I may not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t mean you can just keep things from me.”

Scott is silent for a moment and Stiles finds himself reaching out to make sure he’s still there. Scott lets him trace the sleeve of his hoodie without comment.

“I . . .” Scott sighs softly. “It’s horrible, Stiles. And the smell is - was - almost suffocating. I think there’s a lot of them. I can smell them in all directions. I only saw three, though. This is gonna sound so dumb, Stiles, but - uh. Zombies. I think they’re zombies.”

Stiles lets out a bark of laughter despite himself. “What?” he asks hysterically. “What did you say?”

“Three of them. Gathered around something - I think it was a coyote. They were just tearing into it. Eating it.” Scott shudders and distantly Stiles can taste vomit. “Animals don’t even eat like that. It was just - heinous.”

Bizarrely a small part of Stiles’ mind is stuck on the word ‘heinous’ and he finds himself wondering if Scott is still doing his word of the day thing he had started back when Allison was alive. Then he thinks ‘zombie’ and his brain jams with everything he knows about the undead - months worth of video games, books and movies all coming together and colliding in his mind.

“You really think they’re zombies?” he asks, dumbly.

“Maybe? They seemed - yeah - like dead . . . people, anyway.”

“So . . .” Stiles lets out a shaky laugh. “Zombies have started taking over the world and - what? We just happened to have been transported to the place it started? Are we destined to save the world?”

“Fuck,” Scott says eloquently. “I can keep us away from them - they didn’t seem to notice me before. Just stay quiet, yeah?”

“Okay. “ Stiles nods and reaches out to take Scott’s arm again. His entire body is trembling slightly and he’s unsure if it’s adrenaline, fear, a lack of adderall or some sort of combination of the three.

Scott starts walking and once again Stiles is disoriented by the direction they seem to be going in. He closes his eyes and shakes his head and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling.

Scott seems much more hesitant as he leads him this time, and they seem to cover less ground, spending more time zig-zagging between the trees as they go. Scott twitches them away from the slightest sound - usually sounds Stiles can’t even hear - and Stiles tries not to let his imagination run too wild. He’s glad he can’t hear all the sounds Scott can, because he’s pretty sure they’d drive him crazy.

He wishes he could fill the silence with senseless chatter like always, but Scott seems adamant on maintaining a silent presence.

It seems like a long time later when Scott finally slows to a stop and admits that the light isn’t exactly entirely present anymore. Stiles, whose legs are aching like crazy and has been quietly taking note of the steady decline in temperature, doesn’t complain.

“I was hoping we would be out of the woods by now,” Scott confesses. “Or at the very least find some sort of building to spend the night in. Maybe we should have stayed at the warehouse and set off early . . .”

Stiles shakes his head. “No way, dude. Who knows how big these woods are? We have no food, no water and we really need to get out of here. We’ll be fine - you’ll hear anything that comes within fifty feet of us and wake up.”

“I’m not sure, Stiles. If you’d seen those things . . . I don’t even want to close my eyes.”

Stiles scowls. “That’s stupid. You need sleep just as much as I do - and I can tell you that my body is begging for a bed right about now. Did those zombie things look like they could climb?”

“I’m not sure,” Scott says doubtfully.

“Well, it’s the best idea we’ve got. Pick a tree and try and sort something out, will you? I would kill to lie down right now.”

“All right,” Scott assures quickly. “Just wait here, yeah? Don’t go falling asleep on me yet.”

Stiles doesn’t bother to tell him that falling asleep is pretty much impossible right now. As much as he does want to sleep, he finds that all he can really think about is water. A long, cooling drink of water. And he doesn’t even like water usually.

There is a lot of grunting and rustling of leaves for the next few minutes then a loud thump when Scott drops down right beside him. Stiles jumps slightly and scowls again. “Was that entirely necessary?” he grumbles.

“I thought a tree without lower branches might be a good idea, so I’m gonna have to carry you up.”

“Scott, really - all this carrying you’ve done of me lately - I’m not a princess, you know? I may be blind, but I do have four working limbs.” Stiles is slightly peeved by the carrying - but the thing he’s most annoyed about is that the thought of relaxing into Scott’s back and letting him do all the heavy lifting is . . . extremely appealing at the moment.

“Stiles,” Scott says impatiently, “I’m going to have to jump. You won’t be able to reach - which is precisely why I chose this tree.”

“Argh!” Stiles feels his way around to Scott’s back and jumps up, wrapping his legs around his waist. His arms tighten around Scott’s neck as he feels him tense and ready to leap. Stiles tries to keep his stomach down as he flies through the air.

The tarpaulin is secured tightly between two parallel branches, forming a sort of makeshift hammock.

“Are you sure this is strong enough?” Stiles checks, feeling around the edges of the tarpaulin where it wraps around the branches.

“It’s pretty thick and I tied it well,” Scott’s voice informs him from somewhere to his right. Stiles slides onto the tarpaulin and recoils as his hands touch something soft in the middle.

“What’s that?”

“The coat I told you about,” Scott reminds him. “I just hope it’ll keep us warm enough. I don’t know how much colder it’s going to get.”

With a grimace Stiles wraps a hand around the coat and shakes it out. “Ew. It’s slippery. Is that grease?”

“It was the only thing there,” Scott says apologetically, sliding in next to Stiles.

There is instantly no room on the tarpaulin and Stiles is forced right up against the edge. When he lies down he is half on top of one of the branches.

“Man, this is uncomfortable,” he sighs, his body sagging with relief despite himself.

Scott lies down beside him and spreads the coat over Stiles. “You warm enough?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” Stiles sits up and rearranges the coat so that it falls over both of them equally. “Werewolves get cold too, you know.”

Scott huffs with laughter and snuggles into him, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist.

Stiles freezes for a moment, not entirely sure what to make of the sudden cuddling situation. Logically it makes sense, he supposes, what with the cold and all, but at the same time although their relationship has never been lacking in physical contact this is . . . new. And a little unnerving as a result.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up he assumes it’s morning from the way Scott is tugging on his sleeve. His back is aching from lying on Scott’s arm for hours and his legs are aching from being curled up in a foetal position to try and maintain some warmth. Even so Stiles’ extremities still feel cold and his fingers are cramping from wrapping themselves up in the hem of his hoodie.

“Stiles!” Scott hisses. “Stiles, they’re everywhere!”

“What?” Stiles moans, trying to wriggle his fingers back into feeling.

“The fucking zombies, Stiles!”

Stiles stills. “Oh. Zombies. Right,” he says, abruptly remembering why he was sleeping in a tree practically on top of his best friend. “Uh - where exactly are they?”

“Everywhere! We are literally surrounded, Stiles! There’s got to be a dozen of them all crowded around the fucking base of our fucking tree!”

“What?” Stiles gapes and struggles into a sitting position. He realises Scott must be perched on another branch when he can’t feel him anywhere. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“I guess your faith in me was misplaced,” Scott snarls. “I only just woke up.”

There is something about Scott’s voice which sounds off and, upon inhaling through his nose, Stiles thinks he knows why. “Oh - god-” he gags and pinches his fingers over his nose. The smell of rotting flesh is almost overwhelming and Stiles wonders how Scott is still conscious. “Scott, buddy? You okay?”

“I think I threw up again,” Scott says faintly from somewhere to his right.

“Shit,” Stiles mutters. He digs in his pockets and pulls out the pack of cigarettes. Deftly, he places one between his teeth and lights it. “Here,” he coughs, choking slightly on the sudden intake of smoke and holds out the cigarette in Scott’s direction.

Scott takes it delicately and Stiles hears several deep inhales and hacking coughs to accompany them.

“Is it helping?” Stiles asks hesitantly.

“I think so,” Scott mutters, coughing again.

“Right,” Stiles sighs and carefully crawls the short distance to the edge of the tarpaulin. Gripping the branch tightly, he leans slightly over the edge. He can hear them now. Shuffling groans and heavy breathing fills his ears. Stiles is pretty sure not being able to see what’s going on beneath him is making it, if anything, more scary.

A hand grips his shoulder and gently pulls him backwards. “Careful,” Scott whispers, puffing smoke into Stiles’ face.

Stiles shoves him and leans away. “Yeah. So you got any awesome ideas?”

Scott pauses. “We could set them on fire,” he suggests. Scott plucks another cigarette from the open box still in Stiles’ hand and presumably uses the first one to light it. He exhales heavily and gives another hacking cough. “The smoke is sort of painful,” Scott admits after a moment. “But it’s so much better than nothing.”

Witnessing Scott smoke and not doing anything to deter it goes against every instinct Stiles has. He has spent the last several years being his father’s health conscience, constantly switching out the bacon and the alcohol for carrots and greens - recently he’s even been devising a way to swap the coffee for some sort of herbal tea, and God knows that would be a suicide mission.

It would have been a miracle for some of that not to spill over onto Scott. Stiles and Melissa developed a wonderful relationship purely based on the health nagging. Of course it pretty much fizzled out after Scott was bitten, being that Scott couldn’t actually contract any nast conditions that would actually stick around after that.

Stiles shoves it away. “What do you think? Brains?”

“Brains, Stiles?” Scott asks incredulously.

“In nearly all the movies and video games you have to take out the zombie’s brain to kill it. Probably the frontal lobe. Do you think they want to eat our brains?” Stiles grapples with his thoughts for a moment. “In Haitian lore you can capture the spirit of a zombie in a specially decorated bottle. In South Africa you need a powerful sangoma - which is a sort of healer-”

“Stiles.”

Stiles resists the urge to keep talking, mentally running through everything he knows about zombies. Which is a lot, as it turns out - zombies is definitely one of the subjects he’s researched to hell and back.

“Do you think it’s possible to have too much information on hand?” Scott says, reading Stiles’ mind.

“And what if they are Haitian zombies, huh? We’d need to know!” Stiles defends. “You’re the one who’s not coming up with a plan.”

“I think,” Scott says carefully. “They eat flesh rather than brains. The ones I saw yesterday certainly didn’t seem picky.”

“Okay.” Stiles nods jerkily. “Flesh not brains. It’s probably still brains to take them out, though.” There is silence and he clarifies, “destroying their brains - to kill them.”

“And how about the infection?”

“Oh . . .” Stiles considers. “It’s nearly always through a bite. And from your werewolf thing I’m pretty happy to take that on blind faith.” Stiles slaps his thigh in sudden realisation. “Oh my god! That’s it! We were sent here to stop the zombie apocalypse! And what do we have that no one else does? Werewolf bite! Maybe you can turn them back into people!”

“Oh my GOD, Stiles!” Scott sounds horrified. “I’m not putting my mouth on - on rotting flesh! That’s still moving! What the hell is wrong with you?! No. No way!”

Scott sounds nauseous enough about the very idea that Stiles feels a little bad about it. He figures he can let it go for now. Even though it was a genius idea. “Okay. Sorry. You’re right, that was a stupid plan. Not even worth mentioning,” Stiles lies. “So, think you can bash their heads in without getting bitten?”

“STILES!”

Stiles waits.

“You can’t just-” Scott flounders for a moment. “They were people, Stiles! Actual, living, breathing people! With lives! I’m not gonna bash their heads in! How can you even suggest that?”

“Oh.” It is something Stiles has actually failed to properly consider. When one thinks ‘zombie’ it’s usually connected to ‘kill’ or ‘run the hell outta there’. But this is real life - or so he presumes and killing real life zombies - actually means something. “Shit. I didn’t even think.” He feels slightly horrified with himself. Even if these zombies can’t be cured, killing them shouldn’t be taken so lightly.

So it is that Scott and Stiles end up lounging in the tarpaulin hammock in the middle of the day, alternating between dozing and thinking up suicidal and improbable escape plans. Listening to Scott’s commentary Stiles knows that the sun came up not long after they woke up and he’s been getting hungrier and thirstier ever since then.

“Man, my throat’s dry,” Stiles complains. He smacks his lips a few times in emphasis. “Maybe you can swing through the tree-tops like a monkey?” he suggests.

“I’m not a monkey, Stiles.” Scott sounds half asleep. He’s holding a lit cigarette a few inches from his nose, but not actively smoking it. Stiles is a little concerned they’re going to run out of cigarettes and a lot concerned about all the second-hand smoke he’s been inhaling for the last few hours. Of course there’s also the more immediate issue of the possibility of dying of thirst - but Stiles is trying to stay positive.

Finally he rolls onto his side, facing Scott - though of course he can’t actually see him. “I gotta say, man - if it’s a choice between killing random undead creatures of the night or your heart-still-beating best friend - I was kinda hoping you’d choose me.”

Scott is silent for so long Stiles is beginning to think he’s fallen asleep and just when he’s starting to panic about unsupervised cigarettes catching unsuspecting hammocks on fire Scott coughs again. “Yep. I was trying not to think about that.” Scott wriggles onto his back and flops a hand out to rest against Stiles’ stomach. “We have no idea how far civilization is and - we have nothing. Fuck, did I kill us?”

Stiles snorts. “Not dead yet, buddy. But . . . we really have to make a decision. The longer we wait for them to leave the weaker we are gonna become and - we won’t be able to walk as far.”

“I’m going to kill them,” Scott says abruptly. He sits up and clambers out of the hammock.

“Whoa!” Stiles struggles to keep up. “Wait - really? Dude.” He reaches out and tries to grab onto Scott but grasps air instead. “Are you sure?”

He’s met with silence. Then one of the branches Stiles is attached to judders and he hears a loud thump from the ground.


	3. Something Brighter

Stiles freezes and waits for confirmation that something - _anything_ \- is happening.

“Oh fuck,” he hears Scott mutter from the ground. “Fuck.”

“Scott?” Stiles hisses. “What’s going on?”

“Hey! Hey, over here! I’m right here!” Scott shouts, his voice moving further away.

Stiles gapes, trying to work out what exactly Scott is trying to do. He scrabbles around and heaves himself gingerly off the tarpaulin onto a branch.

“Stiles, stay there!” Scott yells. “I’m going to lead them away from here!”

Stiles grits his teeth. What happened about killing the creepy bastards? And what if Scott isn’t fast enough to keep away from them? Will they even follow him? He closes his eyes and draws in several deep breaths. He has never hated his eyes more than he does right now. What the hell kind of use is he in zombie mania if he’s _blind_?

Scott shouts again, further away. “Hey! Hey! Come on!” Stiles gnaws on his lip, worrying now that Scott is going to draw more zombies to him at the volume he’s yelling. If, in fact, they are intelligent enough to follow sound.

Well, he may not be able to kill or chase away zombie-folk in his state, but he can at least try and make himself useful.

Stiles shifts until he’s straddling the branch he was perched on and starts working on the knots securing the tarpaulin. It’s easy to untie it the side he’s sitting on and he unwinds the rope from the branch until the tarpaulin has fallen out of reach.

He can barely hear Scott now and he stopped hearing zombie groans a little while ago. He wonders how far Scott is going to need to lead them before he can double back safely. If he _can_ double back safely.

Stiles reaches around and manages to smack his hand into a branch above and a little in front of him. It’s thicker than he can get his fingers around and feels fairly sturdy when he tests it so he grips it tightly with his right hand and uses his left hand to help him first kneel and then stand on the branch he was straddling.

Stiles is trembling as he pulls himself upright. The branch he’s holding onto is low - too low to really stabilize him when he’s standing - so he flails and manages to grab on to another branch above him.

Stiles has clambered across and onto two or three branches before he realises that he’s no longer sure where the tarpaulin-branch is, so he climbs lower to try and feel it out with his hands. It turns out that climbing down, with no idea _where_ the branches are or if they even exist, relies mostly on luck. He slips twice and has just found a fairly solid branch to lower himself onto when a gunshot rings out.

Stiles freezes, tense with shock. Are there people around? He isn’t sure if the shot came from the direction Scott headed in or not. It’s far enough away that Stiles isn’t overly concerned about his own safety, but he has no idea if it was near Scott.

Stiles curses and scrabbles at the tree trunk, forgetting about the tarpaulin in his haste to get down to the ground. His foot finds a branch and he puts his weight on it without thinking. The wood snaps under his sneaker and Stiles finds himself falling.

The ground hits his backside forcefully and Stiles finds himself staring dumbly upwards. Apart from the air being knocked from his lungs, he doesn’t seem to be injured - although his head is aching. There is a sudden pounding of footsteps coming towards him and Stiles struggles upright.

“ _Stiles_? Oh my god - Stiles, are you all right?” Scott gasps, skidding to a halt just in front of him.

Stiles blinks blankly and reaches out. “What? Yeah, I’m okay. Are you? I heard that gunshot-”

“Uh-” Scott grabs Stiles’ arm and yanks him forwards. “Yeah, totally - I’m totally okay.” Scott starts jogging, pulling Stiles with him. “Listen, we have to run, okay? I mean we really, really have to run.”

Stiles stumbles and tries to keep up with Scott’s movements. “What?” he says. “Whoa, dude - what?”

“Stiles! Please shut up. Please run.”

Stiles trips on something and falls into Scott, who steadies him. They start running and Stiles trips again, stumbling every three steps.  
“Fuck!” Scott curses, slowing to a stop. “Look, I’m gonna have to carry you-”

“No!” Stiles snaps. “For god’s sake, you’re not _carrying_ me!” He grimaces and fumbles his way to Scott’s back. “Just run in front of me, okay? And - slower. I can do this.”

Scott hesitates. Stiles can tell it’s all he can do not to just grab Stiles and throw him over his shoulder. It would be quicker, really, but that’s really not the point from where Stiles is standing. He grips both hands in Scott’s hoodie at his waist either side. “Scott.”

Scott starts walking and then jogging, and Stiles adjusts his grip on Scott’s hoodie as they move. It’s still not easy not being able to see where his feet are going, but with Scott in front of him he can feel if he’s going up or down and at least grasp a sense of the terrain in front of him.

Stiles isn’t fit enough to run for this long. He’s got a stitch in his side and his breath is wheezing out of him heavily and on top of that he can’t stop thinking about the last time he had a drink of water, so he’s extremely glad when Scott stops suddenly - even if the movement does cause him to bounce off Scott and almost fall.

Scott steadies him with a hand around his upper arm. “You okay?”

Stiles makes a face and shakes him off. To be perfectly honest he isn’t actually much clumsier in his current condition than he usually is and all this grabbing him Scott has been doing lately is starting to rankle. “Could have given me a little warning, dude.”

“Sorry. It’s just-” Scott pauses a little dramatically. “We seem to have come out of the woods.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles perks up. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a road just in front of us.” Scott shifts next to him as if he’s gesturing. “I mean - it’s not a big road, but - it’s a hell of a lot better than just trees, right?”

“Yeah, that’s better!” Stiles grins, suddenly feeling a lot more positive. Finding a road means they actually have a chance of getting home now. For all they knew they could have been wandering around Humboldt-Toiyabe - the biggest forest in the USA outside of Alaska - and they might never have gotten out. But roads always lead somewhere. “Sooner or later we’re bound to hit civilization if we walk long enough. This is great! Hey,” he nudges Scott companionably. “We might even be able to phone home in a couple of hours. So . . .” he pauses. “Left or right, dude?”

They go left. Walking on the road is miles better, Stiles finds. There aren’t leaves and broken sticks to trip over every minute, and Scott seems to have calmed down enough to slow the pace. Scott has positioned Stiles in the middle of the road and is walking next to him, Stiles following along with a hand on his sleeve.

Scott still claims not to hear any traffic and they seem to be walking for miles without coming across a single turning. The sun - though not quite as hot as it was in California, is beating down on Stiles mercilessly and despite his dehydration he’s sweating profusely.

Stiles is starting to think Scott’s having a worse time of it, though. His breathing is getting louder and louder, though Stiles has no idea why. They are walking briskly, but not too fast and since Scott got bitten he hasn’t seemed to have a problem with fitness. Stiles is also willing to bet the lack of hydration and sustenance is more draining on him than on Scott.

Finally, after Scott lets out another loud wheeze Stiles bursts out, “what is your problem, man? You sound like a chainsmoker. Wait - is that it? You’re a chainsmoker now and now you can’t breathe?” He releases Scott’s sleeve in favour of slapping his shoulder.

“OW!” Scott snaps, jerking away. “Oh my god, STILES!”

They stop walking and Stiles blinks in surprise in Scott’s direction. “Dude?” he asks tentatively.

“FUCK!” Scott gasps. “Fuck, that hurts.” He groans and stumbles a few steps further away.

Stiles’ fingers feel wet from where he touched Scott’s shoulder and he rubs them together in sudden realisation. “The gunshot!” He walks forwards until he bumps into Scott and grabs him. “Were you shot?!”

“It’s no big deal,” Scott gasps.

“No big deal?!” Stiles exclaims. “You normally heal fine after a gunshot, don’t you? Is it wolfsbane? Have you been poisoned?” Stiles feels sick. He has no idea how they are going to find wolfsbane out here. It’s not exactly a common plant.

“No. It’s more like I was shot in the shoulder with a shotgun. And I’m pretty sure the slug is still in my arm. It’s okay, I’m just - bleeding a lot.” Scott pushes Stiles away again. “We should keep moving.”

Stiles chews his lip anxiously. “Dude, that sounds really bad. We need to get it out of your shoulder. Preferably before it closes up.”

Scott wraps a hand around Stiles’ bicep and tugs him forwards. “Yeah. And for that - at the very least we’re going to need a house.”

Stiles closes his mouth and follows along, feeling guilty and agitated now that he knows Scott’s in pain. He decides to do his best to distract Scott from the pain and for the next couple of miles he talks Scott’s ear off about all the annoying things Malia did in bed. Sleeping things. Not sexy things. Scott always gets all weird and evasive whenever Stiles brings up Malia and sex. Stiles has two theories on that - either Scott finds it weird because he’s her alpha and as a result has slightly paternal feelings towards her - or he has the hots for her and it disturbs him that Stiles has slept with her.

Though, in hindsight, Stiles realises that making Scott feel weird about Malia and sex would be a fantastic distraction from the searing pain in his shoulder. Stiles is about to yell something lewd and inappropriate in Scott’s ear when Scott says:

“. . .house.”

Stiles blinks and tries to remove his mind from Malia. “Huh?”

“There’s a house. I can see a house. There’s a _house_ , Stiles!” Scott sounds excited. And surprised. And as though he’d practically lost hope they’d ever see a house again.

It kind of makes Stiles want to give him a hug. However, more pressing images of cool glasses of water fill his mind and Stiles drags Scott forwards. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he mutters.

Scott leads him up a gravel path and then they stop. When Stiles reaches his hand out his fingers graze the smooth, solid surface of painted wood. He swallows. “Anyone in there?” he asks quietly.

“No humans. I can smell - there’s a zombie inside. Wait here, okay?”

There’s a quiet sound as Scott tries the latch of the door and then Stiles hears the immediate groaning of a zombie. It is much louder than it was when he was sitting in a tree and Stiles stumbles back a few steps and falls against a prickly bush. His breathing quickens as he listens to his surroundings and tries to work out what’s going on.

Scott grunts and is stepping quickly further into the house. The zombie’s groans get fainter and then there’s a sudden slam of a door being shut. “Okay, Stiles!” Scott yells.

Stiles draws in a few uneven breaths and then pushes towards the house. His fingertips find the doorway and he trips over what is presumably a welcome matt inside. He can hear Scott clattering in another room. He seems to have forgotten temporarily that Stiles can’t see, but Stiles is oddly okay with that. It’s nice to be trusted to take a few steps by himself for once.

“I shut it in a cupboard. Should be fine for now,” Scott says from somewhere ahead and to his left.

Stiles closes the front door gently behind him and runs his fingers along the wall on his left. He walks through the first opening he finds, towards the noises Scott is making. “Is this the kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Scott sounds distracted. “Listen, I’ve got a knife - can you dig out the slug for me?”

“Oh-” Stiles curses. He had practically forgotten. “Yeah, I can try.” He stumbles a few steps into the room until he hits a table. “Is the table big enough to lie on?” He feels along the edge he’s against, but can’t find an end.

“Yeah.” There is a sudden clatter on the floor next to him and Stiles jumps. “Sorry. There was stuff on the table.”

“Um. Okay.” Stiles reaches out and finds Scott’s hand passing him something cold and hard. Oh right, the knife. “Is this clean?” He swallows, trying not to think about what he needs the knife for.

“I can’t get an infection, Stiles,” Scott reminds him. “The only reason I need this slug out is because it’s massive and in my shoulder and it hurts. Like a lot.”

Scott lies on the table and guides Stiles’ hand to the wound in his shoulder. Stiles is actually glad he can’t see right now, because if he could he’d have probably fainted by now. This is so much worse than when Scott got his tattoo. Either time. On the plus side, at least Scott isn’t asking him to chop off his arm.

Stiles’ hands are shaking as he gently prods the naked, sticky area around where the slug went in - Scott must have removed his shirt at some point - trying not to accidentally stab Scott with the knife.

He can feel a scab over the wound and Stiles is trying to work out why it hasn’t fully healed yet. It was hours ago Scott was shot - by all rights there should be no indication this ever happened.

“You still have your werewolf powers, right?” he checks, running the blade across the scab to reopen it.

“Ahh-” Scott recoils, then seems to make an effort to be as still as possible. “Yeah. I don’t know why I’m healing so slow, though.”

“Yet another mystery,” Stiles mutters, poking a finger in the hole he just made and locating the slug with ease.

“Fucking-” Scott swears, rearing up.

Stiles withdraws for a moment, letting Scott regain control. The last thing he wants is to get accidentally clawed by a delirious-from-pain werewolf. “You know it’s going to get a lot worse than that, right?” He gently pushes on Scott’s sternum until he’s lying down again. “I thought you were good with pain. Hell, you went through worse just to get a _tattoo_.” He should probably stop trying to get in jabs about the tattoo. It’s just - he really hates it.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, buddy.” Stiles feels his way to the hole again and, trying not to think about it, slices more skin apart to make it bigger. He ignores Scott’s whimpers and groans as best he can and carefully sticks his thumb and forefinger into flesh and finds the slug.

His fingers keep slipping as he tries to get a grip and Scott is moaning louder and louder, so Stiles finally grits his teeth and shoves his fingers in as deep as they can go until they get a proper hold on the slug. He pulls it free as Scott screams, hand around Stiles other wrist painfully tightly.

“Hey - hey!” Stiles yanks his hand free and presses his palm to Scott’s shoulder as hard as he can. “Hey, you okay? You’re okay - you - fuck. Okay?”

After a few moments Scott stops writhing and falls silent. Stiles tries not to hate himself and waits.

“I think,” Scott rasps. “I think it’s healing. You can let go now.”

Stiles withdraws and drops the knife on the table. He lets out a shaky breath. “Great. That’s great. Super great.” He sinks into a chair he can feel on his right and tries to control his breathing once more. This is becoming something of a habit - all this panicking and things.

It’s a few minutes before Scott gets up, but when he does he seems to be moving more like himself again. Stiles closes his eyes and leans back in the chair. “Please tell me there’s water in this godforsaken house. I need water.”

Scott moves across the room and Stiles hears the squeak of a faucet being turned. There is a gurgle and then a spurt and then finally the sound of a steady stream of water hitting the sink.

“Oh, thank god!” Stiles cries. He struggles to stand, leaning on the table slightly as all the muscles in his body take their turn to complain.

“Uh . . . Stiles?”

“For fuck’s sake, what now?” Stiles snaps. He’s getting sick of hearing that tone in Scott’s voice - the one that says bad things are occurring.

“The water’s sorta - yellow. Yeah. Definitely yellow. Looks like pee, man.”

“Great.” Stiles sinks back into the chair. “Just great.”

“Can we boil it?” Scott suggests.

“I don’t know, Scott, can we boil it?” Stiles snarks.

“Well - there doesn’t seem to be any power but the cooker is gas. Hang on-” The gas gives a _whoosh_ instantly and Scott whoops. “Yeah! It works! I’ll uh - just find a pan and then . . . boil some water.”

“Ten minutes,” Stiles reminds him. “Don’t boil it for less than ten minutes.” He finds himself drooping onto the table as he speaks and yawning, which is ridiculous, because he can’t have been awake that long-

* * *

Stiles wakes up from a dream about running water with a dry mouth and a deep regret that he hadn’t waited for the water to finish boiling before he fell asleep. It’s all he can think about as he opens his eyes, staring blankly up into nothingness.

Scott must have moved him to a bed at some point judging from the way Stiles feels like he’s been swaddled in duvet and blankets. He’s sweating under the covers and he can’t move, but it’s oddly cosy. He just hopes Scott had the good sense to change the sheets before he put Stiles in them. Sleeping in a zombie’s ex-bed seems . . . dirty somehow. And wrong.

With a grunt he shoves at the mountain of covers and and manages to free his arms enough to pull the rest of his body out. There must be a second bedroom because he can’t feel or hear Scott around anywhere.

Stiles swings his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly touches down. The floor is wooden and feels clean on his bare feet - huh Scott must have taken his socks off . . . and his hoodie. And his jeans. Stiles mans up and tries not to feel too violated. It was just his best friend and it’s by far not the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

He shuffles around perimeter of the bed, feeling for his clothes, and comes across something that feels like cotton. It’s some kind of sweatshirt, so he pulls it on and struggles into the next pile of denim he comes across. The jeans are tight and definitely not his - in fact, judging by the size of the pockets (Lydia’s ranted about this no less than seven times) they could easily be a chick’s jeans. Stiles makes a face and tugs them off again. He’ll make Scott find his clothes later.

He only trips twice and stubs his toe once before he finds the doorway. He proceeds very cautiously once he’s left the room, envisioning himself falling headlong down some invisible stairs.

“Stiles?” Scott says from somewhere to his right. “Uh - do you need help?”

“Just give me some directions I can follow,” Stiles says.

“Just follow the wall on your left and when you come to a doorway - go through the doorway opposite it. That’s the kitchen. Okay?”

“Are we in a bungalow?” Stiles enquires, moving much more quickly now that he’s trusting Scott to tell him if he’s about to crash. He can hear Scott following him quietly. He remembers where the table in the kitchen is from earlier and seats himself expectantly. “Water?”

There is a soft ‘thunk’ of a glass being placed in front of him and Stiles reaches for it eagerly. Water is _amazing_ , he reflects. He takes back every instance he told his dad he didn’t like it when he was a kid. He doesn’t know what he was thinking - other than the fact he wanted a _Sprite_ , of course. Even slightly warm, the water is overwhelmingly good. 

Scott starts piling cans of vegetables and chips and chocolate bars on the table. “This is all the good food I can find. There’s a lot of mold in the cupboards and I decided not to even try to open the refrigerator. I can smell it from here. I went for a walk while you were asleep and as far as I can tell this is the only house around for a while. I couldn’t find a car or anything. The power’s off, so obviously calling home is out. The best thing to do is keep walking - which we can do a lot easier now that we’ve got supplies.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait - you haven’t even slept yet? I must have been asleep for hours! Come on dude, if I was dead on my feet you must have been a little tired. You’re tired, right?”

Scott punches him in the shoulder affectionately. “I was about to go to bed when you woke up, actually. Will you be all right if I have a quick nap?”

Stiles feels a little insulted. Sure, he’s blind in what is apparently zombie territory, but he doesn’t actually need baby-sitting. “I’m in a _house_. I’m sure I can manage not to kill myself for a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, sure.” Scott moves past him and slaps his back as he passes. He yawns. “I also moved furniture in front of all the windows, bolted the door and put a chair in front of the - zombie in the cupboard. I picked everything up from the floor, too, so you won’t trip. Yes, this is a bungalow, the living room is opposite the kitchen, the bedroom you slept in is obviously further down the left corridor, there’s a bathroom opposite that-”

“Oh my god,” Stiles face-palms. “You are actually baby-proofing this house for me. Just go to bed, will you? Before I feel like punching you.”

Scott goes to bed.

Stiles fumbles his way to the bathroom and relieves himself, then stands in the hall, wondering how to entertain himself while Scott is slumbering. A scratching to his left distracts him and he abruptly remembers the zombie Scott had shut in a cupboard. Stiles creeps down the hall towards the noises and stops when his outstretched hand brushes wood.

Stiles runs his fingers around the edges of a small door and over a small bolt across the gap. Seeming to sense his presence, the zombie inside gives a louder moan and rattles the door. Stiles’ breath catches and he steps back. Hesitantly he reaches out and raps his knuckles on the door quietly.

The door shakes again and Stiles jumps. Obviously zombies _are_ intelligent enough to react to sound. Stiles leans closer and presses his ear to the gap. The zombie is making a lot of noise, gasping, groaning, whining sorts of noises, but Stiles’ can’t hear breathing.

“Hello,” he says experimentally. The noises get louder again for a while. Stiles can’t work out if it’s male or female. He wonders how old it was when it died. He wonders what its name was. “You were once a human,” he whispers. “Just like me.” It’s weird - all those video games he played and he never really thought about it before. But they were all once alive. “Do you understand me? Can you think? Or are you just super dumb?”

The zombie shows no sign of understanding and no matter how long Stiles stands there, doesn’t seem to get tired of voicing its desires. Stiles sinks to the floor and just listens, wondering if, if it came to it, he could kill a zombie. Scott wasn’t capable earlier, deciding on the spur of the moment to lead them away rather than use the machete. But then there are lot of things Stiles doesn’t mind doing that Scott is morally against. Like squashing flies and spiders for example.

Malia would have no trouble killing a zombie. Allison could have done it. Lydia would think it about long and logically and if she decided that there is no benefit to letting one live then she would be able to kill it guiltlessly. The twins would, perhaps, revel in it - Isaac would struggle a little more. Liam and Kira wouldn’t have the stomach for it. It would destroy Jackson because he would act like he didn’t care and keep going until it ate him up inside. But himself? He’s not sure. It might be easy. It might be impossible.

* * *

They do their best to wash the grime and sweat off with the kitchen sink - Scott warming water up in a pan and dipping a washcloth in it. Scott finds Stiles’ jeans and loots an extra sweatshirt for him.

Stiles finds a pair of glasses being shoved on his nose and he hears Scott’s laughter. “You really look the part now, man. Every blind dude needs a pair of cool looking shades!”

Stiles snorts and strikes a pose. Joking aside though, it kind of helps. He almost feels like he has a reason he can’t see now - like if he just took the shades off his eyesight would come back again.

Scott finds a couple of backpacks and fills them with food. He boils a ton of water and bottles it. He even finds a map of Georgia in the living room. “There’s no ‘you are here’ sign anywhere on it, but I can’t find any other maps,” Scott says, throwing it down in front of Stiles, who is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Georgia, huh?” Stiles muses, fingering the paper. “Atlanta. The official state fish is a largemouth bass.”

“Thank god we know that,” Scott says dryly.

Stiles doesn’t really know anything useful about Georgia specifically. He’s not that familiar with the geography either. However he does know a few fun facts. “Did you know that sex toys are illegal in Georgia?”

Scott snorts. “Trust you to check which states ban sex toys.”

“It’s also illegal to keep a donkey in a bathtub. And to carry ice cream in your back pocket on a Sunday.”

Scott nudges Stiles in the shoulder. “Anything else I should know to avoid getting arrested?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “You can’t curse in front of a corpse or something. I guess that’s hard to avoid around here.” He wonders just how many corpses are wandering around the state at the moment. He wonders if it’s happening anywhere else in the world. “Do you think they’re okay? Back home?”

“Do you mean ‘okay’ as in ‘not zombies’ or ‘okay’ as in ‘not worrying to death’?” Scott pauses. “Because I’m pretty sure this zombie thing wouldn’t have spread that far this fast. And they’ve all got each other, right? I mean it’s only us two in the middle of zombie-town - there are seven of them in the safety of Beacon Hills.”

“Plus my dad and your mom,” Stiles reminds him. “Even if zombies did get to BH our parents would rock that shit.”

Scott slings an arm around him and leans his head against his shoulder. “Your dad’ll be fine,” he says, hitting Stiles’ train of thought effortlessly. “Mom’ll go over and cook him meals so much she’ll be practically living there. He won’t have a moment to himself.”

Stiles leans into Scott’s warmth. “‘He must be frantic,” he says quietly. “If we don’t get back soon he’s going to work himself to death. Or start drinking again.”

Scott doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his shoulders tightly and sits with him.

They rest that day and spend one more night in the house because they can. Stiles may have only spent one night in a tree, but he’s not exactly eager to repeat the experience. Besides, if they leave in the morning they can make the most of the daylight. Not that it really matters to him, of course. Scott’s wound is healed and they’ve packed all the provisions they can find in the house - including another pack of cigarettes and an actual lighter now.

Stiles has been trying not to think about him lighting that cigarette in the tree - he thinks that if he just accepts it maybe he’ll be able to do it again next time. Or maybe that’s stupid, he’s not sure. “Magic is a fickle thing,” Deaton once told him in that cryptic way of his. Stiles thinks that’s just an excuse for not really understanding how it works properly. He lies in bed thinking about the statuette and the Greek writing. The purple light. He thinks about the fact that if he hadn’t touched Scott just before the light he might not be here at all. Scott would be here surrounded by zombies alone and Stiles would be safe at home, sick with worry.

He gets up in the end and fumbles his way to Scott’s bed, where he determinedly thinks only about the way he can feel Scott’s chest rising and falling as he sleeps. Stiles falls asleep counting the breaths, but when he wakes up from a dream about Lydia and his dad building a wall thirty foot high, all around Beacon Hills with him trapped outside, all he can remember is that he was meant to be counting something really important and it slipped away.

Stiles isn’t sure why he wakes up crying, but he’s positive that some of the darkness he can see is just a little bit lighter.


	4. Something Familiar

The backpack is heavy. Stiles has been carefully following the sound of Scott’s footsteps ahead of him for hours. He is sweating in the sun and has stripped down to his t-shirt. He keeps his head down, shades firmly in place as his eyes fix on the scruffy sneakers he had shoved his feet in hurriedly five days ago.

It had been one of those rare nights his dad was home early enough for them to have dinner together. Stiles had been looking forward to it all week - he’d even cooked steak. But then his cell rang and suddenly it was all about Isaac at the hospital. He’d been hit by a force, Scott said, some kind of purple light had flooded the locker room after the lacrosse team’s last minute practise before the big game on the weekend. At least that’s what Danny had told Scott, who had decided to run home afterwards, rather than shower at school like the rest of the team.

After the ambulance came Danny called Scott, who called Stiles, who called the rest of the pack. Stiles had driven by Kira’s and given her and Malia a lift to the hospital. They met the rest of them there. Of course, Isaac having no family meant the doctor wasn’t allowed to say anything, but Melissa had taken the group aside and quietly told them that Isaac was unconscious, he’d been slammed head first into a locker, but that there was no internal bleeding and he should wake up soon.

Scott was losing control. He was vibrating with the effort of staying focused when all he wanted to do was stand over Isaac and kill anyone who tried to come near him. There was nothing they could do at the hospital anyway, so Stiles drove Scott to the school to try and find out what had happened. They found the statuette on the floor next to Isaac’s locker.

Stiles hasn’t seen his dad since he ran out the door, pulling his sneakers on and shouting out directions about dinner as he went. Now he’s roughly 2,000 miles away with no way to contact home. It’s probably the first time ever Stiles hasn’t had a way to call his dad. Maybe his generation have grown a little too reliant on cellular service.

But back to the sneakers. For the past couple of hours Stiles has been staring steadily at two white blobs bobbing up and down below him. The white of the sneakers are glowing against the black tarmac of the road and it’s probably only because of their direct contrast that Stiles can even see them. They are just two blurred shapes, but they are easily the best thing he’s ever seen.

If Stiles were to look up, he would see an even brighter blob in the sky above him, but he knows instinctively that the light would burn his eyes if he looked anywhere near it. He is very grateful for the shades Scott had given him as a joke yesterday. Without them he would be struggling to keep his eyes open, even just staring at his shoes.

The world seems unnaturally bright and dangerous. And through the blurred blacks and whites and greys it is incandescent in its brilliance.

Stiles hasn’t dared mention his newfound ability to Scott yet, though from the unerring accuracy with which he’s been able to follow Scott’s steps, he should have guessed something is up.

Scott’s mind is on other things, though. He’s been brisk and abrupt since Stiles woke up that morning - his mood declining in direct disassociation with Stiles’.

Stiles thinks he knows why, too. Deaton doesn’t have many books about werewolves, but Stiles has read all the ones he has and from what he can tell alphas need their betas just as much as every beta needs an alpha. Being so far from his pack and not even knowing if they are okay has to be killing his wolf. Stiles isn’t sure if he is enough to satiate Scott’s needs at present since he isn’t technically his beta.

Scott slows to a stop ahead of him and automatically reaches for Stiles’ arm to lead him to the side of the road. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just sits down with a relieved huff at the side of the road. He eases his backpack from his shoulders and drags it around in front of him.

“Water?” He offers Scott one of the seven water bottles they managed to fill before they left the house that morning.

Scott takes the water and drinks noisily. Stiles can tell he’s still grumpy. Maybe some food will help. He fumbles in the bag and pulls out a can of something. He can almost see the outline of it against his hand.

He shakes the can from side to side, feeling the contents slop around inside. “Hungry?” he asks.

Scott snorts. “I don’t think canned chestnuts are going to do much for my hunger, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs and peels the top off. “It’ll do something. And they have to be eaten sometime.”

“Wait.” Scott grabs his wrist before he can stick his fingers inside the can. “You’ll cut yourself.” Scott rummages in his own backpack for a moment and comes up with a piece of long, cool metal which he presses into Stiles’ hand. A fork. “I thought it might come in handy.”

“Wow, real cutlery?” Stiles grins. “Why do I feel like we’re glamping right now?” He jams the fork in the can and stuffs a couple of chestnuts in his mouth. They are heavenly. He only ate a few crackers this morning before they set off and his stomach is still doing its best to remind him that he had steady and extremely frequent access to balanced meals not too long ago.

He hands the can to Scott and sits silently while Scott eats. “I never asked,” he says as Scott crumples up the can and stuffs it back into his bag. “Did you see who shot you?”

Scott shifts uncomfortably. “Not really,” he mutters and Stiles can see the dark shape of his body twist away slightly. “I was a little distracted by the zombies. The good thing is a lot of the zombies that were following me were drawn off by the sound. It made it easier to get away, actually.”

“How fortunate,” Stiles says dryly, “that you were shot, then. We ought to send whoever it was a thank you card.” He takes a swig of water and licks his lips, savouring the taste of the water. It still tastes unnaturally good to him. “Do you think they were aiming for the zombies? Or they thought you were one?”

“They weren’t aiming for the group behind me - they were several metres back. So unless they’re a really bad shot and I was just in the wrong place - it was meant for me.”

“But-” Stiles’ mind is spinning. “They wouldn’t just go around shooting the first people they saw, surely? You don’t just shoot people - unless they were hunters. Or something.”

Scott’s arm snaps out suddenly, smacking Stiles in the chest hard. Stiles’ breath leaves him in a _whoosh_ and before he can get it back Scott is dragging him backwards away from the road. 

“What-” Stiles gasps, struggling against Scott’s unfairly strong forearm.

“Get up. We need to hide.”

Stiles is beginning to get sick of Scott not telling him things. But Scott sounds tense enough that he doesn’t argue. Scott leads him about thirty metres from the road, down back into the treeline - at least Stiles assumes it’s the woods - it’s darker over here and he can feel trees on either side.

Scott darts off before Stiles can protest, leaving him leaning against a tree. He’s back a moment later with both backpacks which he drops heavily at their feet. “Get down,” Scott hisses, forcing Stiles to the ground by his shoulders.

Stiles grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything, though he’s starting to get seriously pissed off at this point. He slaps Scott’s hand away and shifts sideways so that the tree is between him and the road.

It’s two minutes before Stiles starts to hear what had spooked Scott. It takes him a moment to place the thundering clattering sound on the road but eventually he realises it’s the sound of horses. They are coming up fast from the direction Scott and Stiles had come from and it sounds like there are a lot of them.

As they approach Stiles jabs Scott in the side impatiently. “Tell me what you can see.”

The horses are close now - almost passing their hiding place. Scott shifts and leans down, putting his mouth near Stiles’ ear. Stiles shivers slightly, not expecting the sudden closeness.

“There are over ten horses - people too,” Scott whispers as the horses pass them by without slowing. “The riders are all carrying guns - big guns - they’re just carrying them out in the open.” Scott pulls away slightly as the sound of the horses begins to recede. “It’s weird, Stiles. They’re like a gang. I don’t understand - why are they still here? Why are they living like this when they could just leave? Get help, contact the authorities, move somewhere slightly less zombie-infested? We’re missing something.”

Stiles frowns. Scott’s right. It doesn’t make sense for people to be hanging around if they can get out. “Maybe that’s where they’re going? They’re finding their way back to civilisation?” He stands and pulls his backpack back on. “We should follow them.”

Scott follows suit, but he sounds hesitant when he replies. “I don’t know, Stiles. There’s something not right about them. They’re a little - scary.”

Stiles smiles. “You’re a werewolf, big man. Can’t you face a few people with guns?” He squints at the dark shadow of Scott’s body standing next to him. If he concentrates he can separate the dark of his jeans from his slightly lighter torso. With a jolt he realises it’s blue. The sweater Scott is wearing is blue. His smile broadens. This day just keeps getting better and better.

Scott grips Stiles’ bicep tightly. “I’m serious. They could be dangerous. Just - promise you won’t try to attract their attention, okay? But you’re right. Seeing where they go is probably a good thing.”

Stiles shrugs. “Fine.” He lets Scott lead him back to the road, silently congratulating himself every time he makes out a new shape or colour.

The horses are long gone by the time they start walking again, but Scott tracks them by scent easily. Stiles walks next to him this time, keeping one hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, enjoying the companionship.

“So tell me,” he says. “Tell me about the riders.”

Scott sighs. “I told you - there were about a dozen of them. Carrying guns.”

Stiles fingers find a fold of skin in Scott’s arm and he pinches, hard. He rolls his eyes when Scott objects loudly. “Come on, that’s not what I meant and you know it. You know more than that. _Tell_ me.”

“Fine. They were all girls.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Like an all-female gang? Interesting. I hope that doesn’t mean they are going to hate us on principle.”

“Firstly, they’re not going to hate us because we are _not revealing ourselves to them_ \- and secondly that’s not what I meant. I don’t mean they’re all female - well - I mean - they _are_ but-”

Stiles’ mouth twitches. “You going somewhere with this, Scott?”

Scott sighs again, heavy with emphasis. “Shut up. What I _meant_ is they are all _girls_. As in _kids_. Not women. No adults.”

“Oh.” Stiles blinks, trying to wrap his mind around this. “Wait - how young are you talking, man? ‘Cos if we are following a bunch of ten-year-olds on horses holding automatic weapons, what the _hell_ man?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shape of Scott’s head shift side to side. “No. I didn’t mean little kids - well - actually there was one girl who looked like she wasn’t much older than twelve, but no. Most of them are our age. Teenagers.”

Stiles swallows and he stops walking. “At this point, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse, Scott. What the _fuck_? I wouldn’t trust _myself_ with a gun - I barely trusted _Allison_ with a gun-” he breaks off with a wince, then barrels on, hoping Scott wouldn’t notice the slip. “But a bunch of teenagers - and _less_ than teenagers - with guns? That is - not good, man. Really not good. What if they were the ones who shot you?”

“That’s why I wasn’t sure about following them, Stiles,” Scott says. “I told you - scary.”

Stiles lets out a frustrated groan and jerks away from Scott a few steps. “That’s what you _meant_? Come on, man! I keep telling you - and you just keep keeping stuff from me! I’m depending on you, man. You are literally my eyes and ears out here. How am I supposed to trust you if you keep lying to me?”

“Hey!” Scott yells, following Stiles across the road. “I never lied to you!”

Stiles growls and turns, shoving his hands into Scott’s chest as hard as he can. “ _You’re not telling me the truth though, are you?_ ” Scott gasps, falling back a step. Stiles follows doggedly, and shoves him again. He stares directly into the shadows where Scott’s eyes ought to be. “How do I trust you?” he seethes.

For a moment Scott does nothing, then suddenly his hand whips out and he smacks the shades off Stiles’ nose, flinging them to the ground. Stiles closes his eyes instantly and brings his hands up to cover them. “And you’re so honest?” Scott says quietly. “Are you even blind?”

Stiles gasps, trying to open his eyes against the light, but it’s much too bright without his shades and they feel like they’re burning. He crouches down and fumbles around for the shades.

Scott watches him for a moment, before sighing and leaning down. “Here.” He presses the hard plastic into Stiles’ palm. “Sorry.”

Stiles takes the shades and shoves them on his nose, straightening up and sniffing. He walks briskly down the road without waiting for Scott.

“Hey - hey wait,” Scott touches his shoulder and Stiles’ shakes him off savagely. “Stiles, I’m sorry, okay? Just wait!”

Stiles laughs bitterly without slowing down. “Yeah? You’re sorry? What exactly are you accusing me of, Scott? Because if you think I’ve been pretending to be blind all this time you are some kind of asshole, you know that? No, I didn’t tell you that my eyesight has been coming back _since this morning_. I guess that makes me the liar, huh? You know, you’re right. I’ve been pretending. I just wanted you to do all the heavy lifting, Scott. I wanted you to feel sorry for me, so I freaked out. But now that the cat’s out of the bag I guess I don’t need you anymore. So whoop-de-doo, Scott. Have fun without the fake disabled person to drag you down.” Stiles pushes on angrily, tripping slightly as the road dips without warning.

Scott, who is jogging next to him, reaches out again. “Come on, man - that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t make it up-” His fingers brush Stiles’ arm and Stiles just _snaps_. He jabs his knuckles into Scott’s trachea and then brings his knee swiftly up straight into Scott’s crotch. Scott gasps and buckles over, groaning and Stiles keeps walking. He wipes angry tears from his eyes and sets his jaw, leaving Scott behind, kneeling in the dust.

Stiles has been walking for about two minutes before he realises that Scott isn't following him. He hesitates, twisting his upper body around to peer behind him, but he can't see anything. "Oh, man," he mutters, biting his lip. He doesn't want to go back and look for Scott - not when he can barely see the outline of the road he's walking on - not when he's still pissed at him. Going on without him, though, would be the stupidest thing he's ever done - and that's really saying something. 

He has just made the reluctant decision to go back when a distinct and horribly familiar metallic _click_ comes from his left; the sound of a gun being cocked. Stiles freezes, heart thundering in his chest. Quiet footsteps circle him slowly and he twists his head to try and see. 

“Hey there,” a light voice drawls pleasantly. “That was some blow you gave your friend back there.”

Stiles is frozen in place, all his anger gone and replaced by intense fear. The figure in front of him is narrow and tall - a dark, feminine frame. Whoever she is, she isn't alone. Stiles' skin crawls as he clocks at least three other people behind him. 

There is suddenly a cold impression of steel on his temple and the figure before him leans in close, threatening. “Now,” the girl says. “Why don’t you tell me exactly where you’re from and where the rest of your group is? And please, please, I’m going to tell you right now not to waste my time. You lie, you die. Understood?” The girl reaches out a hand and strokes down the side of his face. “I’d hate to shoot someone so pretty, but what can I say? I’m impulsive.”

Stiles’ mouth is dry. Where the hell is Scott? Despite what he said he is pathetically vulnerable without him. “What do you want to know?”

Someone laughs to his left, as they walk towards him. The dark shape is huge - much bigger than a person - and Stiles realises it's one of the horses from earlier, a slim figure sitting astride. “Just take him back to base, ‘Drej. You know Silver will want to talk to him anyway.”

Stiles’ eyes dart upwards, but he can’t tell which of the silhouettes above him spoke. “Silver?” he dares. “Who’s that? Your mommy?”

The figure on horseback bursts out laughing above him. “Funny guy,” she says.

There is a glint of teeth in front of him. ‘Drej spreads her lips in a wide grin and she taps her gun against Stiles’ temple a couple of times. “Oh, that’s right. She’s our momma wolf all right.”

Stiles eyes widen and he opens his mouth to ask what exactly she means when ‘Drej snaps her wrist back and slams her gun into the back of his head. The world goes dark before Stiles can even finish forming the thought in his head. It stays with him though, to waking. _Momma wolf?_

* * *

Stiles wakes up as he is being dragged off a horse’s back. Stiles panics and flails, which turns out to be a bad idea because the two people who were holding him curse and drop him. Stiles falls on his shoulder, hard. When he tries to open his eyes, he finds that he can’t see and for a moment thinks that his vision is completely gone again until he feels the pull of fabric around his head. Ironically his kidnappers had blindfolded him while he was unconscious.

“Moron,” a female voice above him mutters. Both of his upper arms are seized tightly and he is pulled upright. Stiles does his best not to fall straight down again. He feels a bit like he did the morning after his seventeenth birthday. He and Scott had camped out in the woods and decided to go shot for shot with a bottle of tequila. It turns out trying to drink a werewolf under the table was one of the dumbest things Stiles ever did.

Stiles groans and leans heavily on the two people either side of him. He thinks, somewhere, he should probably be contemplating escape, but right now all he wants to do is curl up next to a toilet and die.

Thankfully he is deposited on a chair after a few wobbly steps. Stiles leans forwards and tries to keep his chestnuts down. Someone grabs his right wrist and cuffs it to something unyielding next to him.

“Where’s ‘Dreja?” A girl asks a little distance away.

“She went to find Silver,” another girl answers, prising Stiles’ left arm away from his body and cuffing that one too - this time to something above his head.

“All right. You got this? I’m fucking starving.”

The second girl grunts and there is the soft sound of footsteps retreating.

“Who the hell is Silver?” Stiles grumbles. He stretches his legs out in front of him, trying to relieve the pain in his back. It turns out lying unconscious on a horse’s back doesn’t really agree with him. “And who the hell rides around on horses kidnapping people?”

The girl next to him snorts. “Yeah - because we’d voluntarily waste gas. And you were asking for it, wandering into our territory like that.”

Stiles sighs and tries his best to get comfortable with his arms fastened at such odd angles. “Territory? Why would you _choose_ to live here?”

“Why would we leave?” the girl counters.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stiles says sarcastically. Maybe to find somewhere slightly less zombie-infested?”

“Zombie? You mean the dead? Oh, I suppose you’re one of _those_ ,” the girl says snidely. “You know, some of us have decided to just accept that this is the way the world is now.”

“What?” Stiles stills. “What do you mean, ‘the world’?” There’s no answer. “What do you mean? World? _World_?! Georgia. It’s Georgia, right? We’re in Georgia. What do you mean _the world_?”

There is a short silence, then the girl above him laughs abruptly. “You’re mad. You’re completely mad. Or else possibly the most sheltered person I’ve ever met. Where have you been living the last couple of years?”

“This makes no sense,” Stiles whispers to himself. It’s been a few days since he woke up, that’s all. Even if a zombie virus was going to take over the world - if that was what the girl was implying - surely it wouldn’t be able to occur in just a few days? But then she’d said ‘years’. “Do you mean,” he says slowly. “That right now there are zombies all over the world?”

“Oh come on, don’t play stupid with me. You saw the broadcasts. And that was years ago. Somehow I think the living make up only about five percent of the human population now. At least by my estimation.”

Five percent? Five percent of the world is alive? “That can’t be true. Five days ago zombies were something out of a video game. It’s impossible. You’re wrong.”

The girl snickers. “Why do you keep saying ‘zombie’? And come on, five days? Really? Did you time travel or something?”

Stiles gapes slightly. Could he actually have time travelled? Is this what the future is? “What year is it?” he demands. “What year is it here?”

“Oh shut it,” the girl says, impatient now.

“Alice.”

Stiles tenses at the new voice. He hadn’t heard anyone else approach. “Who the hell are you?” he grouses.

“Silver,” the voice replies with amusement. Something about it seems familiar, but Stiles can’t seem to place it. “And you are?”

“Sick of this blindfold.”

“Alice, you can remove the blindfold now,” Silver orders. “He can’t see anything from here.”

“Sure,” Alice says, yanking the cloth off none too gently.

Stiles blinks and winces. He’s lost his shades and his eyes are stinging with the sudden invasion of light. When he looks up he sees a bulky black girl in front of him, grinning, with the blindfold in her hands. Stiles is suddenly struck by just how much he can see. The world is still, perhaps, a little too dazzling, but he’s by no means blind anymore. “Hey, look at that,” Alice, the black girl, says. “‘Dreja was right. He _is_ pretty.”

“Don’t get too attached,” Silver says, gently pushing Alice aside. She leans toward Stiles and suddenly his vision is filled with the delicate features of a pretty, tanned girl his age, her dark hair framing her face attractively. She dimples at him and Stiles’ heart stops.

“Allison?”

The girl jerks back as though she’s been struck. And it’s all there, her voice, her movement, her features. The girl in front of Stiles is undeniably Allison. Stiles’ eyes fill with tears. This doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

“How do you know my name?” the girl demands, fury filling her face. There is no hint of recognition there.

Stiles stares up at her desperately. “Allison, it’s me. It’s Stiles. Come on, you _know_ me!”

Allison frowns at him. “I don’t know a ‘Stiles’. Now tell me how you know my name before I kill you.” She draws a long knife from a sheath at her waist and presses the tip of it into Stiles’ sternum. Her eyes are cold as she stares at him.

This is not Allison, Stiles realises. At least not the Allison he knew. She reminds him most of who Allison became after her mother died, with the influence of her grandfather and Kate. He swallows and leans back as far as he is able in the chair. “Beacon Hills. You moved there for a few years and met Scott McCall. Your family are hunters.”

Allison visibly relaxes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else.” She lowers the knife and stands up straight. “Now, who are you? Stiles, you said?”

Stiles stares at her. “Beacon Hills? You don’t know about Beacon Hills? Or Scott?” The girl smiles slightly incredulously at him. He scowls. “Allison Argent, daughter of Chris and Victoria. Your grandfather’s Gerard. You hunt werewolves!”

Allison snaps. With a cry she lunges at him. Alice wraps her hands around her arm before she can wield her knife. “Hey, Silver!” Alice yanks her backwards slightly. “Calm the hell down. What’s wrong with you?”

Allison - Silver - slaps Alice’s hands away impatiently and grabs hold of Stiles’ collar, dragging upwards. “How do you know all that?” she demands, leaning in close. Her other hand is once again directing the blade of her knife into Stiles’ skin, this time his stomach.

Stiles is not quite able to stand because his right arm is cuffed so low, and trying at the same time to arch away from the knife. “I know it because I know you!” he yells. “You were the love of my best friend’s life! What I don’t get is how you are here, now.” He studies her seething frame. “What happened to you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Allison spits out.

“You _died_.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, Allison’s face inches from his. Her expression is hard and wary. Finally, she ventures, “You know, half the stuff that comes out of your mouth makes absolutely no sense - I mean - _werewolves_? Come on. What I really want to know is how you know the names of my family.”

She doesn’t know about werewolves. Of that Stiles is certain she is telling the truth. She remembers her family, but she has no recollection of Beacon Hills. Did Chris somehow manage to bring her back to life? Wipe her memories? Bring her here? Stiles head hurts. His brain is getting altogether too much unbelievable information today.

“I knew your dad,” he says finally.

Allison’s eyes rove up and down his frame skeptically. “I doubt that.”

“No, I did,” he insists. “He uh - sold my dad a couple of guns.”

Allison’s eyes widen. She glances behind her. “Alice, go get yourself some dinner, okay?”

Alice, who had been standing back staring at them in curiosity nods and backs away slowly, her eyes darting from Allison to Stiles. “Yeah. Sure thing, Silver. Shall I bring something up for him?”

“No,” Allison says coldly, staring Stiles down. “He won’t require sustenance.”

When they are alone Allison relinquishes her hold on his collar and, lightening quick, stabs her knife into Stiles’ thigh.

Stiles screams, yanking on the cuffs, trying to back away. Allison yanks the knife out harshly. “Tell me the truth,” she demands. “My dad sold your dad a gun and he spilled the names of our family as he did so?” She scoffs. “Yeah. I buy that.”

Stiles’ thigh feels like it’s on fire. He’s never felt pain like this before, plain blinding heat. Abruptly he’s back in Deaton’s clinic, driving a sword through Scott’s stomach, twisting, pushing, relishing the pain he’s bringing to his best friend. Tears well up in Stiles’ eyes and he sobs, slumping back into the chair, trying desperately not to jar his leg too much. His guilt has never felt so strong.

Allison stares down at him in disgust. “I can do worse,” she says and jabs the point of her knife into the skin at his neck.

“Fuck, _stop_!” Stiles yells. “It’s true! Your dad sold my dad guns. There’s just a little more to it than that, all right? My - my dad’s a cop,” he begins scrabbling desperately for something she’ll believe.

“Oh.” Allison pulls back, her face transforming. “And he arrested my dad, right? Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” She regards him critically. “So that’s it. You’re just the kid of an overprotective cop.”

Stiles gapes at her, not quite understanding why she isn’t still skewering him. “Uh - yeah. That’s it.” He can feel blood running down his neck, but he can’t feel the cut - the pain in his thigh is kind of blocking everything else out at the moment. He looks down and notices that his jeans are dark with blood. A scary amount of blood.

“Well, as far as criminals go, I don’t think they really exist anymore, do you?” Allison taps her knife against her leg. “We’re all just survivors, after all.”

“Silver?” A young blonde girl enquires from around the edge of a doorway. She looks about ten. “Are you eating?”

Allison turns and smiles at her. “Of course. I’ll be right there, Hanna. Go back inside, okay?”

The girl nods and, after a slightly curious, but by no means shocked look at Stiles, cuffed and bleeding in a chair, retreats. Stiles doesn’t really want to know what kind of a place this is that children are so blasé about bloody knives and prisoners.

Allison turns back to Stiles and nods at him. “I’ll be back later. And then you can tell me everything you know about the sheriff and his merry band of recruits.” She twirls her knife pointedly and sheathes it.

Stiles blinks blearily at her, exhausted and pained. “About what?”

Allison merely turns and leaves, flipping him off as she goes.

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, trying to shake himself out of his daze. “You can’t leave me like this - I’ll bleed to death!”

There is no answer and Stiles is alone for the first time since he woke up. Alone, restrained and helpless to stop his blood from slowly draining out of his body.


	5. School Bars

It can’t have been long, he’s been sitting here, tied to a chair, but Stiles is definitely feeling the loss of blood. He was hoping someone would have come by and patched him up by now - surely Allison doesn’t actually want him to _die_. But no one has come.

He’s been working his way up to it, but now he thinks that he probably can’t wait any longer. If he loses much more blood his chances of survival are going to drop drastically, whether that was Allison’s intention or not. And where the hell is Scott, anyway? What’s the use of having a werewolf as a best friend if he doesn’t come and rescue you at opportune moments?

And so, concentrating as hard as he can, Stiles attempts to set his thigh on fire. Well - he doesn’t actually want his leg to burn up - really he’s just trying to cauterize the wound, but as far as he knows he can’t burn himself without an actual flame.

Unfortunately for Stiles’ concentration his leg is agonising. It would be easier if he could just forget his leg completely, but trying to light something on fire requires concentration on the object itself.

There’s also the fact that Stiles’ isn’t a hundred percent sure he _wants_ to set his leg on fire. He’s sure it will hurt way more than his leg does currently. And that is something his mind cannot actually fathom right now.

So on top of the fact that it’s been a while since he’s been able to light a fire with his mind on purpose, part of his mind is fixated by his pain and another part is extremely reluctant for this to work. Which basically means he doesn’t have a chance in hell.

Stiles exhales heavily and slumps back in his chair. He glances around.

He is in some sort of dilapidated playground; there is a slide to his left which is what his left wrist is cuffed to and a swingset further along. A tall wall, high above Stiles’ head surrounds the playground. To his right is a heavy metal gate, which is presumably what he came through. He can’t see anything through the gate because something has been dragged across on the outside, possibly to hide it from sight.

Ahead of him and a long way to his left a building extends. It’s an old building, stone and sturdy. There are dozens of windows all on this side, all barred, going three floors up. There are several doors, all leading from the playground into the building, one of which is directly in front of Stiles, about twenty feet away - the door Allison disappeared behind.

He turns his head to the left. The far wall of the playground is about a hundred yards away. Stiles can’t see another gate leading outside, but he doesn’t know if there is one for sure, because there are about two dozen horses milling around in front of the wall.

Stiles turns back to his leg, glossing over the bloody mess of it with his eyes. He grimaces and tries to concentrate again, conjuring up the image of a flame in his mind. He stops trying to ignore the pain in his thigh and instead focuses on it. He _is_ a hundred percent sure that he wants his leg to get better, after all. With a grunt of frustration and the growing sense of _something_ he discards the image of the flame and throws himself into the perception of his wound.

Stiles’ thigh tingles suddenly and his eyes fly open in surprise. There is no fire on his skin, but the area around the wound is burning hot. It isn’t a bad sort of heat though, it feels cleansing more than anything and there is no pain from it. _Friendly fire_ , Stiles thinks dazedly.

In a few seconds the heat is gone and the pain in his leg has reduced itself to an intense throb. Stiles can’t actually see what happened to the cut, because there is still blood everywhere, but something tells him it has, at the very least, scabbed over.

Stiles sits there for a moment, staring at his blood-covered leg in shock. In all his lessons Deaton never told him that he would ever be able to do anything like that. He wonders if Deaton even knows that he could do something like that. Stiles _healed_ himself - a little, anyway. Like Scott and the betas. The knowledge that he has the power to do even something _like_ that is overwhelming. And to think he was attempting to do something as crude as lighting his wound on fire.

Stiles snickers maniacally. He is exhausted after the effort, but he has never felt more powerful. He imagines what Scott’s face would be like if he had seen that.

Damn it. Scott.

Stiles stops laughing. He still has absolutely no idea where Scott is - and honestly, if hasn’t come bursting in yet to save Stiles - he could really be in trouble. And what if he does come bursting in and sees Allison?

“Not good,” Stiles mutters to himself. He can only imagine how Scott would react to her presence.

Now that his imminent demise is no longer an immediate issue, Stiles raises his head and looks around again grimly.

Two small girls have appeared amongst the horses, holding up buckets to each horse’s nose. They whisper to each other, giggling, when they notice Stiles watching. The girls are obviously twins. They are asian and covered in freckles, with bright ginger hair twisted into buns on their heads. They are wearing matching black and white dresses and their feet are bare.

He turns to his right. His right wrist is shackled to a steel bike rack, which loops towards the wall. Three identical black bicycles are slotted in at the far end. He gives his wrist an experimental tug, but the rack seems solid. The chair he’s sitting on is plastic and reminds him strongly of the ones at BHHS.

A door opens at the other end of the playground and Stiles turns his head to look. Another girl walks through. She is older than the twins are - more like fourteen and she is wearing a larger version of the dresses they are wearing. The girl - tall and pale - snaps something sharply to the twins and gestures inside.

The twins, no longer giggling, drop their buckets and dash inside, shoving each other as they run. The pale girl glances quickly towards Stiles and seems to recoil a little when she meets his gaze. She turns abruptly and goes back inside.

So, he’s in a playground. A large building, bike racks, uniformed dresses, the horrid, plastic chair - it’s a school. From the look of the place a private school. That could also explain the fact that Stiles has yet to see any person of the male variety. A private all-girls school. The place looks surprisingly defensible. But the place has seemed so far to be run by the students. He hasn’t seen anyone over the age of eighteen yet. Is Allison their leader?

All the girls Stiles has seen so far - including the youngest ones have had weapons strapped to their waists. The twins and Hanna, the girl who had called Allison for food, had small knives tucked into their belts. And the older girls each seemed to carry their own handgun. This place may have once been a school, but it is far from that now.

If what Alice had said was true then this isn’t Stiles’ world. He thinks he gets that now. No matter how far forward Scott and he could have time-jumped, Allison wouldn’t have been reborn with a different history. And something about the way Alice referred to the zombies as ‘the dead’, rings as extremely foreign to him. Stiles is pretty certain he’s going crazy. But he has heard Deaton talking about something like this before. After all, what’s a parallel universe when werewolves are thrown in the mix?

No, this isn’t his world. Which means that somewhere, perhaps, another Stiles lives, roaming California. If he’s not dead. Sorrow fills him as he realises that he has family here. His friends, his pack - or at least their doppelgangers - they could still be out there, alive. Surviving. And what if they’re not? His dad? What if he’s dead?

It doesn’t really matter at the moment. All Stiles needs is to get Scott and get home. But to do that he needs to know what exactly brought him here - or rather how and why. He needs to know about the statuette.

“Well, it looks like the bleeding’s stopped,” a pleasant voice brings him out of his thoughts. “How fortunate for you. You might have a chance of survival yet.”

Stiles looks up to see Allison standing before him, eating a joint of meat. Hanna is standing behind her, watching curiously. Allison grins, juice dripping down her fingers. She licks at it casually. “You know,” she says conversationally. “You must be hungry. I know you had food in that pack of yours, but somehow I can’t picture you hunting. Tell me,” she pads closer, silently and holds the joint out at Stiles’ eye-level. “When was the last time you had fresh meat, Stiles?”

Five or six days ago, Stiles thinks wryly, eyeing the meat. It does look good though. Hot. And Allison is obviously expecting him to be interested. He decides to play into that. He licks his lips and leans forward tentatively. “What is it?”

Allison smiles at him. “It’s good. Do you want some?”

Stiles’ darts his eyes down to the meat and then up again and Allison’s smile broadens. “Well, you can have it - and more. Provided you’re willing to share as well, of course.”

“What do you want?” he asks warily.

Allison settles into a crouch and meets his eyes. “Rick. The man with the crossbow. The woman with the katana. Ring any bells? I want you to tell me everything you know about them.”

Stiles frowns heavily. Allison seems very certain that he knows exactly what she’s talking about. And he knows just how dangerous she can get if she gets angry. So - either to attempt to persuade her that he really does know nothing, which could prove extremely difficult, or - to lie. He’s not entirely sure what the best course of action would be at this juncture.

While he considers his options Allison blinks at him from her crouch. She bites into the meat in her hand and tears off a chunk, grinning as she chews. “Ana’s a very good cook. You sure you don’t want some?”

Stiles sighs. To be perfectly honest, he really, really would. However there are just too many things he doesn’t know at this point. If he did start lying it’s unlikely he would be able to keep a believable charade for long - and that would just make Allison even more angry in the end. “That sounds nice,” he says. “But somehow I don’t think you’re going to want to give me any.”

Allison tilts her head and narrows her eyes at him. “We’ll see. Spill.”

Stiles leans forwards as far as he is able with his cuffs. “Well, you see,” he whispers conspiratorially, “I have . . . absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Though I admit I did once know a chick with a katana, I can’t say I know any Ricks or - guys carrying around crossbows? The only person I knew who used a crossbow was this other girl.” He swallows, staring into her familiar brown eyes. “But she died a long time ago.”

Allison grits her teeth, all sense of sweetness gone now. She sets the meat down on the slide Stiles is cuffed to. Hanna darts forwards and grabs it, stuffing it in her mouth gleefully and runs back inside, her interest in the situation seemingly abated. Allison ignores her and rises to stand over Stiles, her eyes darkening as she stares at him.

Stiles feels his heart ache as he looks at her. She is so like Allison. Especially the lethality of her. But the Allison he loved was never as cruel as this girl has proven herself to be. She’s similar enough to her to make it hurt, but different enough Stiles can’t find any desire to remain in her company.

The stranger in front of him reaches deliberately for the hilt of her knife, staring down at him as she does.

Stiles sighs and leans back in defeat. “I would really rather you didn’t do that. It wasn’t all that pleasant the first time you stabbed me.”

Allison runs her fingers over the handle, almost reverently. “Then I recommend that you tell me what I want to know.” She draws the knife and jabs it quickly toward his stomach - stopping just before the point touches him.

“For god’s sake!” Stiles snaps. “I’m not some fucking toughened Russian spy! Trust me - if I had any information to offer you I would have done so the last time you put that thing in me. _I have never met these people_ , comprende?”

Allison stares down at him wordlessly for a minute. Then - “The girl you knew with the katana-?”

“Kira,” Stiles replies instantly. He would feel bad giving up information on his friend, but somehow he doesn’t think it’s going to mean anything to Allison. “Japanese girl?”

Allison shakes her head and retreats a couple of steps. “No.” She frowns down at him heavily, as if deciding what to do.

The door behind her swings open and Alice’s bulky frame fills the doorway. “Silver? We have a slight problem.”

Allison’s lip curls in irritation. “‘Dreja?”

Alice’s chin jerks in a nod. Her eyes flicker to Stiles momentarily, then back to Allison.

“Fine.” Allison gives a careless gesture in Stiles’ direction. “Patch him up, will you? I’ll come back to him later.” She shoulders her way past Alice and disappears inside.

Stiles swallows, watching her go. “What’s going on?” he asks as Alice moves forwards, her right hand fumbling in her pocket for something.

“Your leg doesn’t look too bad,” Alice says, ignoring him. She pulls out a key and deftly unlocks Stiles’ cuffs. Before he can so much as think about using that to his advantage, she’s re-cuffed him, this time with his hands together in front of him. She attaches the spare pair of handcuffs to her belt.

Stiles flexes his hands experimentally. His arms ache from being pulled in different directions for so long and it’s a relief to be able to relax them. The cuffs are also slightly looser than before. He finds himself warming to Alice.

“Can you walk?” Alice enquires, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles grimaces, looking down at his blood-covered leg. “That sounds distinctly unappealing.”

Alice shrugs and loops an arm around his waist, lifting him effortlessly to his feet. Stiles cries out when he puts weight on his left leg and falls sideways into her. Alice steadies him with her other hand on his chest and looks at him calmly until he’s balanced. “Okay? Just try and hop. I’ve got your weight.”

Stiles exhales sharply and nods, wishing his hands were free so he could lean on Alice more practically. Alice, for her part is practised and efficient in her movements, unnervingly so.

“You do this a lot, or something?” he asks, hopping forwards.

Alice snorts. “Yeah, well, Silver’s always been a little quick with the knife. You’re not the first poor sod I’ve had to patch up.”

“Why is she your leader?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious. Alice seems like a tough and practical girl, but legitimately good as well. Not exactly the sort of person who would follow someone blindly.

“She was the steadiest of us all when the world ended. She was smart, quick to find solutions to our main problems. She planned a raid on the police station before any of the rest of us had so much as thought about guns.” Alice shrugs easily under his weight. “She may be a little psychotic at times, but we wouldn’t have made it this far without her. And she’s not a bad person.”

Alice has led him inside the school for the first time, Stiles hopping awkwardly down a long, wide hall. There’s no one in sight. The floor is wooden and scuffed, muddy tracks everywhere. There are numerous classroom doors leading off the hallway - and another hallway joining this one about halfway along.

Alice leads him down the second hallway and then into a small, cosy room with a couple of hospital beds in. “This is the old nurse’s sick room from when the school was running. Of course, it’s much too small now, so we moved everything to an unused dormitory.” She helps him sink down onto the bed nearest the door. “This will do for you, though. There’s a lock on the door and everything,” she smirks at him.

Stiles smiles weakly. His leg is aching and he’s afraid it’s started bleeding again.

Alice leans forward, frowning, and places a hand on his forehead. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good. We’re going to have to take those jeans off and clean your leg up a bit. I’m going to cuff your left hand to the bed. Make any sudden movements and I’ll deck you,” she warns.

Stiles nods mutely and watches as she unlocks the cuff from his right wrist and then clicks it closed around the bed frame.

“Can you undo your jeans? I’d rather not get more intimate with you than I have to.” Alice stands back and watches Stiles struggle with his belt and then the button on his jeans.

Stiles would rather she not get more intimate with him than necessary either, but it’s obvious that with one hand and without moving his left leg too much, he’s not going to be able to push his jeans down his legs himself.

Alice acts like a professional, though, and he finds it surprisingly unembarrassing to be helped undressed by a girl the same age as him. The dried blood makes it painful as his jeans are carefully prised away from his skin and if it wasn’t before his wound is definitely oozing fresh blood now.

It looks a mess to Stiles and he looks away, clapping his free hand to his mouth, trying his best not to be sick.

“Hm,” Alice murmurs, from where she’s leaned over his leg. “Looks like a clean cut. You should count yourself lucky it was Allison’s knife that did this. She’s pretty OCD about cleaning her weapons. You won’t get an infection from the blade at least.” She wrinkles her nose and regards the pile of bloody denim at Stiles’ feet. “Not sure I can say the same about your jeans, though.”

“Haven’t you got any antibiotics?” Stiles moans around the nausea in his mouth.

Alice actually snorts with laughter. “Ha. Yeah, there’s no way we’re wasting our drugs on you. I’ll get a cloth and clean this up, though.” She squints up at him. “You gonna barf?”

Stiles nods, eyes screwed shut, refusing to acknowledge his leg in any way.

Alice sighs and a few seconds later plonks a plastic bowl down on the bed next to him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Stiles clutches the bowl to his chest and lowers his head into it, groaning. “Ew, ew, oh my god, ew . . .” he mutters to the bottom of the bowl. “Fucking, fuck, fuck.”

It seems like an age before Alice finally comes back, but when she does Stiles has recovered from his nausea somewhat - without throwing up, thankfully - and she’s carrying a plate of steaming food. Stiles’ mouth waters at the sight of it.

“Are you sure I’m deserving of sustenance?” he asks sarcastically, putting the bowl down and taking the plate with his right hand.

Alice looks amused as she grabs the bowl he has just discarded. “We’re not wanting for food here.” She fills the bowl with water and drops a scrap of white fabric in it. “Now, if I were you, I’d do my best to concentrate on what’s going on above your waist, rather than what’s happening below it.” She kneels between his legs and squeezes water from the cloth.

Stiles can’t resist. “Usually I’m pretty keen on what’s happening below the waist. Especially when there’s someone else handling things.”

Alice flicks his thigh, hard. Stiles grimaces and follows her advice. He practically inhales the food. Mashed potato and mushy peas have never tasted so good as far as he is concerned. Alice places the soaking cloth on his thigh and just lets the water trickle down his leg for a moment. She hums lightly under her breath. Gently, she cleans the dried blood off his skin.

Stiles finishes his food and lays his plate aside, watching her. “Is she going to let me go?” he asks quietly.

Alice pauses. She looks up at him solemnly, her lips pursed. She clears her throat and looks down again, continuing her ministrations. “This might manage with just a bandage. To be honest it looks a hell of a lot better than it should, really.”

“Alice,” Stiles pleads, leaning forwards. “Please. Come on, I know you know. She’s done this before, right? Just give me a figure here. What are my chances of getting out of this alive?” _Getting out of this alive without a miraculous rescue from Scott, anyway_ , Stiles thinks.

Alice exhales sharply and gets to her feet. “I’ll be back with some bandages and gauze. I’m sure you can manage to clean your own wound.”

“Alice!” Stiles snaps, catching the cloth she flings at him. “Come on, man! You can’t just leave!”

The black girl ignores him and shoves her way out of the room, the door slamming closed behind her. Stiles scowls down at the cloth in his hand. Where the hell is Scott, anyway?

He dunks the cloth back in the bowl of water and spreads it awkwardly over the gaping hole in his thigh. Bandages, yeah right. He’ll be very lucky if that holds him together. Ideally, he needs stitches. Even more ideally he needs to get a hell of a lot better at magically healing himself. Maybe he should just get Scott to bite him.

Stiles snorts at the thought. If there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that he was definitely not born to be a werewolf. It would make Scott happy, though. He’s always been just a little extra protective of Stiles compared to his betas and he’s confessed to him on more than one occasion that he’d feel better if Stiles was bitten.

Human or not, Stiles isn’t going to just sit here, waiting for Scott to rescue him. With his free hand he grabs his jeans from the floor. He digs around in his pockets and finds the pen he’d had with him the day they’d gotten here. He places the end in his mouth and unscrews it. He spits out the end and tips the pen upside down, shaking the contents out, which includes a tiny metal spring. He picks up the spring off the mattress and pulls at it with his teeth. It’s difficult and it takes a while to straighten it out enough to use. When it’s straight he carefully bites down on the very end and bends it into a right angle.

This may be the first time he’s used a pen, but it is far from the first time he’s picked his way out of a pair of cuffs. And usually both his hands are cuffed. He’s even managed it with his hands behind his back. Hell, what was his bored, thirteen year old self supposed to do when his dad left his cuffs lying around the house? This is simple compared to that. It takes him about thirty seconds to unlock the cuff around his left wrist. He flexes his hand and grins at the freedom. He’s going to have to move fast if he has any chance of getting out of here.

Just then the door opens. Stiles jerks his head up and stares wide-eyed at the person in the doorway. It is the tall, pale girl from the playground. She gapes at him - at the open cuff by his left hand and the thin piece of wire in his right. Then she turns and runs.

“Shit!” Stiles snarls. “Oh, fuck.” He unbuckles his belt quickly and yanks it free. He slips the end around the top of his thigh and pulls as tight as he can. There aren’t any holes that far along to do the belt up properly, so he ties a clumsy knot. He pulls it as tight as he can. It’s the best he can do under the circumstances. At least he won’t bleed to death if he gets moving.

He uses both hands to brace himself against the bedframe and hauls himself upright. He’s shaking and his good leg almost collapses under him, but he forces himself to hop to the doorway, one hand resting on the bed as he goes. He grabs for the door and leans heavily against it for a moment, trying to catch his breath, then stumbles into the hallway.

Like before, it is deserted and he thanks god for that small mercy. He makes to hop forwards again, but as soon as he legs go of the door his leg gives way and he tumbles to the ground. He cries out as his leg hits the floor and bites his lip as hard as he can, hands scrabbling desperately at the floor.

Suddenly a cool hand lands on his shoulder. Stiles looks up to see the same girl - the pale girl - crouched in front of him. She looks at him with wide eyes, then slowly reaches down and grips his arms. “I’m going to help you up.”

Stiles blinks at her. Then nods, warily and lets her position herself under his arm. She pulls him upright with difficulty, but eventually leans him, panting against the wall. He stares at her, trying to get his breath back, his leg shaking beneath him. He’s trying to figure out exactly what she wants, when she turns and retrieves something from the floor a few metres away.

Crutches. She’s holding out a pair of hospital crutches to him. The girl looks at him apprehensively. “Take them, yeah?”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He snatches the crutches from her grasp and slips his arms through them. He turns to go back down the hall from where Alice had brought him, but the girl stops him with a gentle hand to his arm.

She points in the opposite direction. “Seventh door on your right, go straight through the room to the opposite door. It’s not guarded. Everyone’s gone to lunch.”

Stiles stares at her suspiciously. “How do I know it’s not a trap?”

The girl backs away. “I could have gone to get ‘Dreja or Silver. I got you crutches. Just go for the door, okay?” She turns and runs down the hall and disappears, obviously not wanting to get caught with him.

Stiles grimaces and glances both ways down the hall. He exhales and turns right, towards the door the girl had pointed to. It’s not like he really has time to consider his options. Alice could be back any moment.

He moves much faster with the crutches. He reaches the door in a matter of seconds and pushes it open hesitantly. It’s pitch black inside, so he uses the crutches to feel ahead of him. A few paces in, he can see a small slit of light at ground level and makes his way towards it. It’s a smooth, wooden door with an emergency exit sort of handlebar going across the middle. He passes his right crutch to his left hand and pushes at it. The bar is stiff but it gives after a moment. The door swings open, revealing the murky light of dusk outside.

“Hey!” A voice yells from behind him. A light flickers on in the room and he turns and sees ‘Dreja, the girl who had knocked him out, standing open-mouthed in the doorway. She reaches for the gun at her side. Stiles reacts instinctively. He ducks, falls and rolls outside, kicking the door shut behind him. A bullet tears through the wood above him. Then a second. Then there is a massive shudder as someone kicks at the door from the other side.

Stiles grimaces and braces his good leg against the door. He jabs a crutch at it, which does practically nothing. There is another shudder and the door pushes open slightly. Stiles yells and kicks it closed again.

There is a sudden crashing and thundering behind him and Stiles turns his head to see three figures burst out of the treeline. One is dirty and asian, one is broad and shaggy and wielding a crossbow, and one is . . . Scott.

“Stiles!” Scott yells and sprints towards him. Stiles gapes and his foot slips on the door. It smacks into his side violently and ‘Dreja stumbles out, holding her gun high. She looks at Stiles wildly and then sees Scott running towards her. She levels her gun at him, eyes shocked and afraid.

“NO!” Stiles screams. He kicks at her legs and whacks her with a crutch. She jerks and topples and falls on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs. Her head falls across his shoulder. He stares up at her sightless eyes and the crossbow bolt going right through her skull. Blood oozes slowly down his cheek.


	6. Station Blues

“Stiles!” Scott appears above him, concern and panic showing. He pulls ‘Dreja’s body sideways until she flops down next to Stiles.

Stiles stares at her corpse. ‘Dreja’s face is still turned towards him. Her blue eyes are wide and vacant. He scrambles backwards, as fast as he can manage with one working leg. Scott steps over ‘Dreja’s body without a glance. He grabs Stiles by the arms and hauls him upright. He crushes him bodily in a tight embrace.

Stiles digs his fingers into Scott’s shirt and turns his face into his neck so that his view of ‘Dreja is obstructed. For a moment he just closes his eyes and breathes his best friend in.

“Stiles. Stiles, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, his voice low and soothing. He brushes his fingers over Stiles’ hair and clutches him tighter. “Stiles, I’m so sorry. Are you all right? You’re hurt. What’s wrong?” He pulls away slightly, his eyes raking over Stiles’ form until he finds the source of the scent of blood. “Oh, shit. Are you okay? You’re bleeding. Shit, that looks deep.” He presses his fingers into the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles’ eyes close in pure bliss as his pain slowly drains away.

“Hey. Hey, man, we’ve gotta go.” Stiles turns to see the asian man shift awkwardly forwards and back, turning from the man behind him with the crossbow, to Scott and Stiles.

Scott bends and collects the crutches, pressing them into Stiles’ hands. Stiles takes them shakily, unwilling to release Scott from his grip. Scott looks at the men angrily. “You killed her! How could you do that? You killed a human being! What’s wrong with you?”

The men exchange incredulous looks, then the asian shakes his head dismissively. “Hey, listen. Our deal was to help you save your friend. But we’re not waiting around here for the rest of the Highwaymen to get a clue. You come with us now, or we go our separate ways.” He backs away slowly, the other man keeping pace with him like a shadow.

Scott curses. He opens his mouth again, furiously, but Stiles puts a hand on his chest. “Scott.” Scott looks down at him, concern instantly supplanting the anger. Stiles shakes his head carefully. “We can’t stay here, okay? We need to leave now.”

Scott sets his jaw and nods once. “Fine.” He casts one last regretful look at ‘Dreja before taking Stiles’ left arm and wrapping it around his shoulders. “This okay?” he asks, sliding his right arm around Stiles’ waist.

Stiles shakes his head. “I hate to admit this, dude, but there’s no way I’m walking out of here fast enough. You’re gonna have to carry me.” His leg isn’t hurting anymore, but to be honest it’s feeling pretty numb by now and he’s worried the tourniquet he made with his belt might be too tight.

Scott crouches down in front of him and Stiles drapes his arms around his neck. The two strangers have stopped again, watching.

“Aw, hell,” the one with the crossbow mutters. “Come on,” he jogs back towards them, clearly intent on helping to carry Stiles.

“It’s fine,” Scott says curtly. He hefts Stiles up higher easily and starts running towards the treeline, the crutches clutched in his left hand.

Stiles smiles at the bemused looks the two men share as they run alongside and turns his face into Scott’s neck again, revelling in the warmth and familiarity of his scent. He feels perfectly safe for the first time since he got to this godforsaken place.

* * *

The even rhythm of Scott’s stride is soothing. Scott is steadily draining Stiles’ pain as it comes, and he’s taking all of his weight, so Stiles isn’t particularly surprised when he starts nodding off.

When he jerks awake sometime later, it’s to find that Scott has stopped. They are out of the woods now. There are a few rows of houses ahead of them and to their right. Scott is crouched slightly behind a wrecked car, the two men are a little ways ahead, muttering to each other agitatedly.

Stiles taps Scott on the shoulder to let him go and slips down to the ground. He braces an arm around Scott and takes an offered crutch in the other. His body aches from being bent over Scott’s and it’s good to just stand. He peers over the top of the car. He can see a zombie about twenty yards ahead - no, wait - two zombies - three? “What’s happening, Scott?” he whispers. He catches the men glancing back at them in between their hushed conversation. “What are they saying?”

Scott’s jaw is set and he’s watching the men closely. “They’re discussing whether or not to bring us back to their group. They were going to leave us in one of these houses, I think. But there are too many zombies around for it to be safe. They don’t trust us, though.”

“How many zombies are there?” Stiles asks, craning his neck. He still can’t see more than three or four.

“About twenty or so.”

Stiles sighs, looking around. It seems like they are on the very outskirts of some kind of town. He isn’t even surprised to see the deserted and dilapidated state of the houses and he’s given up hope of finding any kind of authority to take him and Scott home. Not that that would work anyway, seeing as there is perhaps a 95% chance this is a parallel universe. No, the only way they are getting home is through magic. Which means Stiles needs to research and learn how to do that.

“So they don’t trust us,” Stiles murmurs. “But do we trust them?”

Scott shrugs. “I helped them. They promised to help me get you back. They held up their end, I guess.”

Stiles frowns. “Do we actually want to follow them back to their group, though? I - really need a library. I need to look some things up so that we can get back home.”

Scott turns to look it him, his brown eyes vulnerable as they meet his. “Do you know something? Like - where we are, or whatever?” His eyes dart back to the men in front of him. “The way they’re talking . . . I don’t think this is what we thought it was, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs and buries his face in Scott’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to mention Allison. Not just yet. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell his best friend that his dead girlfriend is back - alive and . . . psychotic. “I’m not sure this is our world anymore, buddy,” he says honestly. “It’s not right. And I don’t just mean the - well, you know, the zombie apocalypse - it’s . . . just not where we came from. Don’t you think?”

Scott nods. “I know. So the only way home is through magic, right? If we made our way to Beacon Hills here, it wouldn’t actually be home, yeah?”

“I think so.”

The two men are finished talking now and move back towards them, the white guy in the lead. “A’right, listen up,” he begins, jerking his chin at them. “We gotta ask you a couple o’ questions. If you tell the truth then-”

“Then we’ll see,” the asian man breaks in, laying a hand on the other man’s bicep. They exchange another look. “Okay.” The asian man inhales and looks at them directly. “How many walkers have you killed?”

“How many what?” Stiles asks blankly.

“Zombies?” Scott asks.

The asian man gives them a perplexed look. “That’s what you call them? That’s . . . a little aberrant, isn’t it?”

“Well, not really,” Stiles snorts. “They move like zombies, they walk like zombies - they eat people, right? Couldn’t really get much more specifically ‘zombie-like’.”

The men just look at him blankly.

Stiles sighs. “Okay, I guess you just don’t have them here. Which is ironic, what with the whole-” he waves his crutch around expressively. “You know.”

“Hey!” the man with the crossbow grunts. He steps forwards, a little threateningly. “Jus’ answer the damn question.”

Scott’s whole body shudders with the force of his growl, he bares his teeth and he steps into Stiles’ space protectively. Stiles smacks him with his crutch before he can advertise his superphysicality. He smiles reassuringly at the bemused men before them. “We haven’t killed any - walkers. At least I haven’t. I’m assuming you haven’t since we got separated?” he asks Scott.

Scott grits his teeth and shakes his head minutely. “I don’t kill people.”

The asian man’s whole body screams ‘oh, not this again’. “For god’s sake.” He fixes Scott with a penetrating stare. “They’re not human, they’re not sick. They’re _dead_.”

Scott tenses under Stiles’ hand. Stiles gives him a warning look. “Come on, man. You’ve seen the movies. And-” he leans closer to Scott, voice lowered to a whisper. “These people have actually lived this, Scott. They probably know by now, better than we do.” Scott scowls, but doesn’t retort.

“You tryna tell us you two _survived_ this long wi’out takin’ out a single walker?” the man with the crossbow demands suspiciously. “Ain’t no way.”

“We were hiding out in this warehouse - it had these really high walls - loads of raccoons, too.” Stiles smiles, winningly. “It was safe for a while. But it turns out we should have been watching our food more carefully. We didn’t actually know things had got this bad outside.”

The men exchange looks again. “If you lie about this,” the asian man warns, “-if we take you in and find out you lied - about _anything_ -”

“Then you’re dead,” the other man growls.

“Yeah,” the asian man says, looking uncomfortable. “You uh - kill any people?” Then he rolls his eyes and sighs. “ _Living_ people,” he specifies.

“ _No_!” Scott cries, outraged. “Unlike _some_ people we’re not _murderers_.”

“Fine,” the asian man agrees. “I’d kinda guessed that from your reactions earlier, anyway. Though I sure as hell don’t know how you avoided it for this long. I’m Glenn, by the way. This is Daryl.”

“Scott,” Scott bites out.

“And I’m Stiles,” Stiles offers, waving awkwardly. “So what happens now?”

“I guess you follow us home,” Glenn grimaces. “Rick’s going to love this.”

Daryl shrugs and shoulders his crossbow. “Ain’t no use yacking about it. ‘S gon’ be dark soon.”

“Yeah,” Glenn agrees wistfully, glancing at the darkening sky. “Maggie’ll be worried.”

Stiles takes the second crutch from Scott and lumbers after Glenn. Scott keeps pace just behind him and Daryl takes up the rear, either to keep an eye out for zombies, or to keep an eye on them. Probably both.

Glenn takes them on a winding route, dodging between houses and zombies, leading them deeper into the town. Stiles is making them move slower than they’d like, judging by the way Glenn forges ahead for about twenty paces, before stopping, shifting restlessly as he waits for them to catch up.

They pass a damaged hospital. It is easily in the worst shape of all the buildings surrounding - the windows completely smashed and half the doors destroyed. Stiles guesses that raiding a hospital would be his first move too, if the world ended.

There is a corpse lying in the middle of the road, outside the hospital, her guts spilled out. Glenn steps over the body casually, without even glancing at it. Stiles tries not to look at her, skirting around the edge. Beside him, Scott has a hand covering his mouth and nose. He’s shaking, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the rotting corpse.

Stiles reaches for him automatically, forgetting for a moment about his crutches, and goes down like a pile of bricks when his good leg slips in a pool of innards. He yells as his left leg hits the ground. Scott throws himself forwards, reaching to take the pain away, and in doing so stops holding his breath. In seconds he’s vomiting violently on the ground next to them, but his hand manages to find Stiles all the same. He spasms as he absorbs Stiles’ pain, groaning. Stiles slaps his hand away.

“For god’s sake, look after yourself,” he says groggily. “You’re taking too much.” His head is clearer from the small relief, though his leg still aches harshly. He looks up to see Glenn gaping at them.

Daryl is standing next to him, squinting down at them as though he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters. He leans down and wraps a dirty hand around Stiles’ arm, yanking him upright. “All that from a dead walker?” He shoves Stiles’ crutches back under his arms and then goes to help Scott.

Scott is whimpering as he stands, the stench clearly driving him crazy. Stiles’ heart pangs for him. He no longer has anything to help with the smell. “Hey,” he whispers, leaning in towards him. “Just think about something else. Cover your nose with your sleeve. Something.”

Daryl’s eyes are narrowed as he watches them. “Summat wrong with your friend?”

Stiles throws him a vehement glare. “Leave him alone. He’s not used to this. Neither of us are.”

Scott buries his nose in his hoodie and stumbles after Glenn, without even waiting for Stiles. Stiles winces, watching him go. He can’t even imagine how bad it must be for him. Probably not just his sense of smell, either.

He gives Daryl another angry look before following, hobbling after Scott as fast as he can. Daryl and Glenn have a silent conversation before continuing onwards. Stiles wonders if they’re regretting their decision to take them back home. He really hopes not. But if this is the kind of group where you have to have something to offer to stay, then he’s really not sure how long they’ll last.

* * *

A long piercing whistle sounds as they pass the town square; a tall, regal hotel on one side and a coffee shop and small supermarket on the other. Stiles twists his head, but he can’t tell where the whistle is coming from.

Glenn and Daryl both stop walking abruptly and glance at each other. Glenn shoos Scott and Stiles into the coffee shop doorway and hisses at them to stay low. “Wouldn’t want them to shoot you on sight,” he explains.

Stiles awkwardly hunches against the doorway, an arm braced on Scott for support. Scott’s hand clenches around Stiles’ arm, but he won’t look at him.

Glenn stands in front of Stiles, blocking his view whilst Daryl jogs on ahead. “Carol? Is that you?” Daryl calls. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Daryl,” a young, male voice greets. “We were expecting you back hours ago.”

“Got a little caught up,” Daryl grunts. “You might wanna run ahead to Rick. We’ve got some company.”

“What?” the voice starts, turning angry. “Who?”

“They seem legit,” Glenn offers, voice rising as he calls across the square. He turns and after a moment's hesitation, gestures for them to come out again.

Stiles stands, his leg groaning beneath him and stumbles forwards, back into view. There is a boy standing at the far edge of the hotel, watching him. He is grubby, with long straggly hair and a sheriff’s hat sat comfortably on his head. His right hand is on a long, thin pistol at his belt. The boy’s eyes narrow as he stares at Stiles and then again at Scott as he moves in next to Stiles. He looks like he’d very much like to shoot them and be done with it.

“Why are you bringing them here?” he hisses at Daryl, not taking his eyes off Scott and Stiles.

Stiles sort of feels like he should bolt now, before he ends up with a bullet in his other leg. This boy seems as unpredictable and dangerous as Allison had, despite being a good few years younger than Stiles.

“Carl,” Glenn warns, stepping towards him, hands held palm out, as if in surrender. It seems to Stiles a strange position to take to a teenage boy with an itchy trigger finger. “They’re good. Or if not, we can decide later. Go to your dad, okay? We’ll be right behind you.”

The boy, Carl, freezes for a moment, uncertainty painted across his face, eyes fixed on Stiles. He hates them, Stiles realises abruptly. He genuinely, vehemently hates these two strangers who have stumbled into his territory. And that is something Stiles doesn’t understand. He’s hated very few people in his life, and only after they have done something to deserve that hatred. Gerard, after he kidnapped and tortured him. Peter, once he found out exactly who he was. Most of all, the nogitsune, for reasons which are obvious to anyone who knows what happened. But he’s never hated anyone on sight before. It makes him wonder just how, exactly, this boy must have suffered at the hands of strangers.

Carl turns away abruptly, hand falling away from his pistol easily as he slips into an alleyway Stiles hadn’t noticed before. Daryl tails Carl and Glenn gestures at Scott and Stiles to follow on.

Stiles follows Daryl’s easy gait down three or four incredibly narrow passageways, Carl having disappeared out of sight after the first corner. Daryl slows enough to allow Stiles to keep pace, but seems as anxious as Carl to go ahead.

Eventually Daryl runs up against a heavy metal wall - at least Stiles assumes it’s a wall until Daryl kicks at it and calls out. The wall-that’s-not-a-wall slides open with a loud scrape and a black woman with dreadlocks smiles toothily at Daryl. She slaps him on the shoulder as he goes past. “Rick’s inside,” she says. He waves a hand in recognition and disappears.

The woman’s head swivels and she takes in Scott and Stiles making their way slowly up the passage. She moves to fill the opening as they approach, her narrow shoulders strangely threatening. Stiles notices for the first time that she has a long sword strapped to her back - a katana.

So, he’s met two out of three of the people Allison was so anxious to know about.

“Stop,” The woman says firmly, holding up a hand. “You’re not going any further until I know you’re clean.”

Stiles glances at Scott, who is frowning, heavily. “What do you mean ‘clean’?” Scott asks.

The woman shrugs. “No bites, no weapons.”

 _So it is bites_ , Stiles thinks. He stands still as the woman crouches and inspects the wound on his leg. She stands after a few seconds and circles around behind him. “Lift your t-shirt,” she orders.

Stiles grimaces. He passes a crutch to Scott and awkwardly pulls his t-shirt as high as possible without removing it. The woman glances over his torso and then nods, turning to Scott. “You too.”

Scott looks sour as he hands Stiles’ crutch back and bares his torso for viewing. Stiles gapes at him. Scott has a large patch of dried blood coating his skin. The skin beneath is smooth and flawless, but Stiles has no doubt it’s Scott’s blood. He tries to catch Scott’s eye, but Scott avoids his gaze studiously.

Stiles scowls and vows to interrogate Scott about it later.

The woman doesn’t go quite as far as to ask Scott to remove his jeans, but she does pat him down heavily, presumably hoping to tell if he’s hurt by his reactions. “You’re clean,” she announces finally, standing upright and gesturing them past the metal wall.

“I could have told you that,” Stiles mutters, limping into a - parking lot? It’s not a large lot - there are about thirty cars in it, all of which have been pushed against the inside of a tall, barbed fence, which runs along the spaces between the surrounding buildings.

A grey haired woman is standing on one of the cars at the furthest part of the fence. She’s carrying a semi-automatic firearm, her fingers tracing every inch of it familiarly. She glances towards them once, but most of her attention is focused on the outside of the fence. After a moment she steps onto the car next to her and watches carefully for any new visual. These people aren’t lax about their security, that’s for sure. Escaping from them would be a hell of a lot harder than it was escaping from Allison’s people.

Stiles swallows and glances at Scott, who is watching the grey haired woman wide-eyed. He keeps looking at the gun she’s carrying with what Stiles can only describe as nausea. He understands the feeling. Until Allison’s group had taken him he’d never before been surrounded by people so entirely . . . trigger happy. Or at least so completely at ease with the fact they always have incredibly lethal weapons at hand.

The big brick building the parking lot seems to be connected to has ‘MADISON POLICE STATION’ in big letters plastered along one wall. Stiles can see the edge of a crossbow through an open doorway.

The black woman smiles again as Glenn comes past the wall and draws him into a hug. “Maggie’s been going stir crazy without you here,” she says warmly. “You know where to find her.”

“Thanks, Michonne,” Glenn says pulling away, “but I’ve gotta take care of these two.”

The woman, Michonne, nods and heaves the door back into place behind them. “I don’t envy you that job, that’s for sure.”

“Rick’s in a bad mood?” Glenn asks.

“You could say that,” Michonne says wryly.

Glenn nods and squints up at the grey-haired woman on guard. “Hey, Carol!”

The woman twists sideways and waves down at him briefly, before returning her attention to outside. Glenn shakes his head and heads for the open doorway Daryl had disappeared into.

Stiles exchanges a quick glance with Scott. Michonne has already disappeared to the other side of the parking lot, swinging herself up onto the roof of one of the cars. Scott shrugs and follows Glenn, moving slow enough that Stiles is able to walk with him.

They enter a room which looks so much like the inside of the Beacon Hills’ police station it hurts. The layout is almost identical. Stiles looks at the glass-walled office in the corner and can’t help looking for signs of his dad - his coffee mug on the desk, perhaps - but the room is hauntingly empty. The desk has been taken out and replaced with a camp stove and stacks of boxes and cans of food. There is a pile of dirty dishes by the door.

Stiles swallows and looks around the rest of the room. All of the desks the deputies would have used have been shoved into one long line in the centre of the room, forming a sort of table. The inside of the police station is gloomy, despite the fact it is almost dark outside. There are no electric lights on, but there are a couple of lamps scattered around. All the outside windows seem to have been completely blacked out and boarded over.

Daryl and Carl are standing at the far end of the makeshift table with a third man. They are standing in a triangle, obviously having been in the middle of a discussion, but are completely silent as Stiles stumbles inside. He sees the man tense and turn, his right hand snapping to a sleek looking Colt Python at his hip. His jaw is set and his eyes dart from Scott to Stiles to Glenn and back again. He looks very much how Carl had when he first saw them. 

Carl himself is looking more at ease now. He has one hand braced on the table and the other resting on his side-arm in what looks like a resting pose. He looks up at the man and back to them, but seems content to let someone else handle the situation.

Daryl reaches forward and lays a wary hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Rick?”

Rick shrugs Daryl’s hand off. He shifts from foot to foot slightly as he thinks. Eventually he nods. “Lock them in Carol’s room for now. We’ll decide later.”

Glenn nods and leads them down a hallway to their left, out of the main area. The building is quiet but Stiles can hear the muffled sound of a small child wailing somewhere. He can’t hear the zombies, or any signs of life outside the police station, just the soft sounds of conversation between Daryl and Rick.

Glenn pushes open a door to a small, windowless room and gestures inside. “You can make yourselves comfortable in there. You understand we have to lock you in - while you’re unsupervised.”

Scott grunts and shoulders past him, moving into the room. There is a dirty mattress on the floor, but not much else. Scott helps Stiles sit down on the mattress and then immediately bends to inspect his thigh.

Stiles tugs the bottom of his boxers down, feeling oddly exposed. He glances at the cut on his leg. It’s still clean, but the edges are inflamed and slightly yellow looking. He reaches for the belt that’s still wrapped tightly above the wound and fumbles with it, trying to work it loose.

Scott bats his hands away gently and patiently works the knot until the belt slides off Stiles’ leg. Stiles gasps slightly as the belt comes away and kneads his knuckles into the spot it was binding, trying to get some feeling back.

There is a sudden pounding of footsteps from the hallway they’d come from and Stiles feels Scott tense.

“Glenn!” a female voice cries. A dark figure darts into sight and barrels straight into Glenn, who is still standing in the doorway. “Oh my god, I was so worried,” the woman babbles, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses.

“Maggie!” Glenn pulls away, managing to sound appalled as well as spectacularly besotted. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he chides.

“Oh, I been restin’ so much, my head’s startin’ to spin,” Maggie laughs, pulling back slightly. She runs her fingers through his hair and gazes up at him smilingly. “Look at you. You look exhausted. Why haven’t you come to see me yet? Elsie’s been missin’ you.”

Glenn extracts himself from her, smiling. His cheeks have reddened and he glances up at Scott and then Stiles. “I’ve been a bit busy,” he mumbles, pointedly.

“Oh.” Maggie seems to notice them for the first time. She turns in Glenn’s arms and faces them. Her eyebrows rise as she sees Stiles’ state of undress and the bloody gash on his leg. “Yeah, Michonne said somethin’ about strangers.” She stares at Scott, kneeling in front of Stiles, for the longest time. “Funny,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Scott frowns and turns his back on the lovers in the doorway, peering at Stiles’ leg again. “This is inflamed,” he says quietly to Stiles. “You’re going to need antibiotics. And stitches.” He runs cool fingers up and around Stiles’ thigh, prodding at the area around the cut gently. An intense shock runs up Stiles’ leg from the areas Scott is touching and he jerks away, covering his leg with his hands protectively. Scott looks up at him in surprise. Stiles’ eyes are wide and his heart is hammering so loudly Scott must be able to hear it easily. “Uh,” he starts, licking his lips. “Sorry, it just hurt a little.”

Scott gives him an incredulous look and Stiles realises too late that Scott can tell exactly when he’s in pain. He flushes red and babbles. “So, uh - drugs, yeah? That’d be great, man,” he says to Glenn, looking up at him. “I mean - uh - stuff? Please?” He sighs and covers his face with his hand. “Shit, I’m tired, I guess. Sorry.”

Maggie smiles in amusement, eyes darting from him to Scott. “Oh,” she murmurs. She turns to Glenn. “Well, I guess that’s your job. I’d better get back to Elsie. Come find me when you’re done?”

Glenn nods and bends to kiss her before she slips away. “Um. Sorry,” Glenn apologies as he grabs the door. “I’ll be back with a light and the medical supplies, but you’re going to be in the dark until then. Just uh - sit tight.”

The door closes with a soft click and there is the sound of a bolt being drawn.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks quietly, sinking down on the mattress next to Stiles.

Stiles jerks his head in a nod tiredly, until he realises it’s dark. Then he realises that Scott can probably see anyway. He closes his eyes and leans his head down on Scott’s shoulder, which is unnecessarily bony in his opinion.

“You should sleep,” Scott declares.

“Uhmm,” Stiles agrees, not bothering to move.

Scott snorts and pushes him over until he’s lying down.

“This has absolutely no improvement on your shoulder,” Stiles mutters into the musty material as several springs jab him in the back and behind.

“What?” Scott lifts Stiles’ legs carefully pulls them straight along the mattress.

“Nevermind.” Stiles opens his eyes again and stares blankly into the darkness above him. “Don’t I have to get cleaned up before I sleep?”

“I can take care of it,” Scott moves onto the floor next to him and takes one of his hands in his. “You don’t have to worry. You should never have got into this state in the first place,” he says bitterly. “If I’d been with you, instead of running towards the first scream I heard in the distance-”

Stiles scowls. “Oh, great. The self-blame. I was wondering when that would come up. You know what, man? I think we’ve got enough to deal with without guilt over things that are out of our control. You weren’t there. That’s right. It would have been easier if you had been there. I might not have gotten hurt if you had been. Or they might have shot me when they saw you. Or you might have gotten yourself killed. Who the hell knows?” He digs his fingers into Scott’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, so shut _up_.”

Scott is still for a moment, hands still clenched tightly around Stiles’, but then he lets out a little sob and leans over and shoves his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck as far as he can. Stiles’ mouth opens in surprise and then to his utter bewilderment tears well up in his own eyes. Scott shudders against him and Stiles starts to cry in tandem, full-body, wracking sobs radiating from the both of them. Stiles covers the back of Scott’s head and neck with his left hand and pulls him closer, and for the first time since this all started, he just lets himself weep.


	7. Meeting Rick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the short chapter. You know how crazy Christmas can get :P Also - dammit! I'd planned on all the TWD characters on being post season 6 - so Carl should have one eye, right? Oops...

Stiles wakes up to silence and the faint, blue glow of an electric lantern sitting in the corner. He is lying flat on the mattress, his back somehow having managed to work around the springs so they aren’t digging into his spine. Stiles’ head is turned on it’s side, facing Scott, who is curled against him, one arm draped heavily across his waist. Scott’s face is inches away, relaxed and his mouth is gaping slightly in sleep.

Stiles’ heart breaks a little as he looks at him. Scott has been a constant at his side since they met in 5th Grade. They’ve gone through everything together: Scott’s dad leaving; Stiles’ mom getting sick and passing away; the discovery of werewolves and hunters and kanimas and druids and kitsunes. Stiles couldn’t have done any of it without Scott. The thought that he might one day lose him is paralysing. Stiles hates the supernatural. He hates all of it - the magic, the creatures - the danger. He would do nearly anything to go back to the night Laura’s body was found and keep Scott indoors, far away from Peter Hale.

They wouldn’t have met Derek. Scott would never have caught Allison’s eye. They would never have become friends with Lydia. They would never have noticed Isaac, Boyd or Erica. They would never have met the twins, perhaps never have become friends with Kira. Malia would have stayed a coyote - never remembering the pain of being a human. Liam would have just stayed a normal, teenage boy.

For all the good things that have happened because of that night, Stiles would take it all back without a second thought. Maybe more people would have died, without their intervention, but his dad, Scott and his mom would be - _normal_. And safe. “Scott?” Stiles whispers tentatively.

Scott doesn’t move. Stiles raises his right hand cautiously and gently pets his fingers through Scott’s hair. Scott frowns slightly and turns his face into the mattress, but he doesn’t wake. A wave of emotion envelops Stiles and his lips start to tremble again with the threat of tears. Stiles has almost lost his best friend countless times in Beacon Hills, but here - in this new universe - the threat seems so much more palpable. He doesn’t want to lose him. On impulse Stiles leans in and presses a kiss to Scott’s forehead. He jerks backwards as Scott stirs and snatches his hand back to wipe at his mouth.

“Stiles?” Scott grumbles, rubbing his eyes. He groans and yawns. “You’re awake.”

Stiles laughs tensely, hoping his heart rate isn’t too atypical. He wipes his eyes in case they’re wet and then turns a bright smile on Scott. “Wow. Were you taking my pain in your sleep or something? My leg feels great.”

Scott stretches and then turns on his stomach. “I cleaned it up while you were sleeping,” he mumbles into the mattress.

Stiles pushes himself up on his arms so that he can see. There is a thin blanket covering the majority of his lower half, but he can just see a hint of dirty white wrapped around his leg. “Bandage?”

Scott snorts. “Yeah. I also stitched it up. Apparently you not waking up while I stabbed you repeatedly with a needle is a bad sign. I had to stop Glenn from shaking you.”

“Glenn was in here?” Stiles asks, feeling strangely exposed.

Scott turns his face to look at Stiles. He just blinks at him for a moment. “Don’t worry, I made him leave. He wasn’t here long.”

“Right.” Stiles smiles weakly. He turns away.

“Hey.” Scott’s fingers brush Stiles’ cheek gently. “Are you okay?”

Stiles shrugs. “Do you think we’ll get home?”

“What?” Scott pulls and prods until Stiles is facing him again. “Come on, Stiles.”

“No.” Stiles slaps his hand away lightly. “ _You_ come on. We’re in another _world_ , Scott. And we have no idea how we got here. Or how to get back. And who knows if we’ll even survive long enough to figure it out? This place is _dangerous_.” He frowns at Scott. “And really fucking scary.”

Scott closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again he looks anguished. It makes Stiles want to pull him into a hug and never let him go. He tries to convey the sentiment with his expression, and Scott’s eyes soften slightly. He smiles. “You’re the only thing I really care about at the moment, Stiles. And that’s how I know we’re going to get home. Because I won’t rest until you’re happy.” Scott curls his fingers around Stiles’ hand.

Stiles sighs. “You’re a fucking sap, you know that?” He clenches his hand around Scott’s fingers. “Thanks,” he adds quietly.

Scott smiles at him dopily. “Anytime.”

Stiles huffs and tries not to smile back. “I guess we should make a plan, then. Can’t get home without one.”

Scott shrugs and rolls onto his back. “What do you need?”

Ideally, Stiles needs Deaton, but that obviously isn’t happening. “I suppose the next best thing is Deaton’s books,” he sighs.

“Huh?” Scott looks at him quizzically.

Stiles squeezes his hand. “Sorry. Thinking aloud. Did you notice a library through town?” Scott shrugs. “Well . . . I have to study. Probably. Is that easier here, where we’re protected? Or out there, where we don’t have to make trigger-happy strangers trust us?”

Scott is silent for a moment. “I don’t like them,” he says eventually. “They don’t seem . . . right. You know?”

Stiles does know. There’s something definitively lacking in these people who took them in. He noticed it in Allison’s gang, too. Maybe it’s innocence - or trust - Stiles isn’t sure. But it’s disconcerting all the same. “I think with the-” he hesitates. “The people who kidnapped me - with them out there, we need protection. And these people have definitely proved themselves capable.” He remembers how scared Allison had made him feel and cringes slightly. “I know you can protect me,” he adds, when Scott looks a little offended. “But there’s a certain kind of sense to sticking with a group, don’t you think? Just for now.” He sighs again and stares resolutely at the ceiling. “We need to make them want us.”

* * *

Stiles and Scott are sitting on one side of the long table in the police station. Rick is standing on the other side of the table with Daryl. Carl is sitting in the corner of the room, watching with a wide-eyed, chubby toddler sat in his lap. The baby is chewing one small hand avidly while the other clutches the folds of Carl’s t-shirt. Quite frankly, it looks adorable - and like a normal, happy child, instead of zombie-traumatised one.

Stiles forces himself to tear his eyes away from the sight of the first innocent human he’s met since he got here, and back to Rick - the guy who is seemingly in control of his fate.

Rick paces, his right hand twitching towards the gun at his hip. His eyes dart from Daryl to Scott and Stiles. He flexes his hand and raises it to rub at his beard. “All right,” he rasps eventually. “I want you,” he points a finger at Scott, “to tell me exactly what happened yesterday.”

Scott leans forwards, hands braced against the table. “Okay,” he says agreeably. He glances at Stiles. “My friend and I were holed up in a warehouse up until a few days ago. We ran out of supplies and had to start walking. We hit the road, followed it and then - we uh - got separated.”

Rick flexes his fingers again. “Got separated how?” he demands.

Scott bites his lip, looking unsure. “We had a fight,” Stiles pipes up. Rick’s head jerks in his direction, eyes narrowed. “I got mad, kicked him in the nuts and ran off.”

There is a loud snort from the corner. When Stiles looks, Carl looks like he’s trying not to laugh. He ducks his head behind the toddler silently, shoulders shaking slightly. Rick’s face remains expressionless. “You ran off by yourself?” Stiles nods. “Fine. What happened next?”

“I was angry,” Scott replies. He looks at Stiles and Stiles leans towards him a little, curious. Scott still hasn’t explained what happened to him after he left Stiles. Scott shakes his head and looks at Rick instead. “I wasn’t . . . in control. I ran back into the woods.”

Oh. Stiles grimaces in sympathy. Scott must have wolfed out and automatically ran in the opposite direction to Stiles in case his instincts took over. Without his pack there to steady him it would have been like before when he had just become an alpha and couldn’t turn for fear of losing control.

Stiles nudges Scott’s knee with his own and gives him an encouraging smile when he looks. Scott doesn’t smile back. Instead, he frowns and looks up at Rick again. “I ran for a while - I don’t know how long. There were a few zombies I was dodging . . . then I heard a scream.” He shrugs and twists his hands on the table.

“You heard a scream and you ran towards it?” Rick checks, glancing at Daryl as he does so. He seems disbelieving, which Stiles doesn’t understand. Isn’t it instinctual, to run towards the person in pain? Then again, Stiles amends, maybe those were the old rules.

Scott nods. “The woods ended on a farm. I found the woman who had screamed. She was sitting at the bottom of a well. I don’t know how long she’d been down there - she looked . . . sick. There was a zombie lying on top of her. I think she’d just killed him - and that was why she screamed. He must have fallen down the well on top of her. The woman was weak, but she asked for my help, so I went to try and find a rope or something. There was barn fairly close, so I looked around inside and found a few short pieces of rope.” He looks at Daryl. “When I went back to the well him and Glenn were standing there.” Scott shrugs. “They almost shot me, I gave them the rope. The woman was too weak to pull herself up so I volunteered to go down and get her.”

“Wait, hang on-” Rick raises a hand. Disbelieving is a mild description of the way he looked now. “You’re saying you let two strangers lower you into a well with a dead walker in it to save a woman you’d never even met?” He looks at Daryl for confirmation.

Daryl grunts. “Didn’t have to ask him, neither,” he says grudgingly.

Rick seems momentarily speechless. He stares at Scott, and then at Stiles, and then back to Scott again. “Go on,” he sighs, waving a hand.

“Glenn and Daryl lowered me into the well and I tied the rope around the woman’s waist,” Scott continues after a pause. “I think her leg was broken. She was in a lot of pain. Glenn and Daryl pulled her up and then-” Scott fidgets, eyes shifty - a clear sign to Stiles that he was about to lie. “They were arguing about something. I couldn’t hear, but they wouldn’t pull me up for ages. When they did, the woman was propped against the side of the barn a hundred yards away. She was still alive, but Glenn and Daryl wouldn’t go near her again. They made me walk away.” Scott looks down at his hands. “There was a gunshot not long after that.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. He grabs for Scott’s hand on the table, heedless of the fact they are in full view. He holds his hand almost defiantly, abruptly hating Daryl for putting Scott through this, no matter how much it wasn’t his fault. Scott looks at him, gratitude and relief evident in his expression.

Rick is silent for a while, his face solemn when Stiles risks a glance at him. “Daryl told me why he agreed to help you - and why he chose to bring you here.” Rick turns from Scott abruptly and fixes his gaze on Stiles. Stiles swears his skin shrivels slightly. “Which just leaves your story. What happened to you?”

And so Stiles tells it. He watches Scott carefully throughout it all and is painstakingly discreet about the fact that the girls’-scary-leader-who-stabbed-him-in-the-thigh is Allison - or her doppelganger - or her double - or whatever the term is for your alternate reality self.

“And you just picked the handcuffs?” Rick asks, disbelievingly, when he finishes.

Stiles snorts at him. “I’m a cop’s son. I know how to pick my way out of handcuffs. Apparently school-girls don’t think about double locking them, either.”

A wave of something crosses over Rick’s face and he glances, seemingly involuntarily back at Carl, sitting in the corner. Finally he purses his lips and fixes both Scott and Stiles with a stern look. “So neither of you have ever killed any walkers? Or people?”

Stiles shakes his head. “A lot of people have died,” he says, thinking of Laura, Erica, Boyd and Allison dully. “But no. Neither of us are directly responsible for their deaths.”

Rick seems to understand. He straightens and nods, hand rubbing the back of his head. “We’ve all lost people,” he murmurs, looking towards Carl again. Carl is crooning softly to the baby in his lap, holding it’s fingers and nuzzling his face into it’s belly.

“Is the baby yours?” Stiles ventures, looking from Rick to the child.

A small smile involuntarily graces Rick’s face as he watches. “In every way that matters,” he says softly. He clears his throat and looks away. “Her name’s Judith.”

Stiles doesn’t ask where her mother is. The pain in Rick’s eyes is eerily reminiscent to the pain in his dad’s. He looks at Scott and sees that he is entranced by the small child. He smiles a little and squeezes his hand. Babies and animals have always been Scott’s kryptonite.

“Glenn seems to think you have some medical training?”

Stiles looks back at Rick to see him looking intently at Scott. Scott shrugs slightly. “I was training to be a vet. I know a bit.”

Rick and Daryl glance at each other again. “We would be happy to have you,” Rick says eventually, “if you would like to stay.” Then he grimaces. “But if either of you make a move we don’t like, I will kill you.”

“We’ll stay,” Scott murmurs and Stiles looks over at him in surprise. Scott glances at him and winces. “For a while. We want to go home.”


	8. Dream Telepathy

Lydia is smiling at him. Her hair is falling in front of her face as she leans forward, placing a hand on his chest. “Stiles,” she purrs. She is straddling his lap wearing a green dress with a plunging neckline that draws his gaze. Her lips are painted deep, deep red and her eyes are wide with mascara and kohl. “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” she whispers, breathing into his ear.

“Stiles,” says Jackson. When he looks Jackson is standing, towering over him, his eyes dark with anger. He can feel the hatred and despair emanating from Jackson’s presence. He wants to run away, crawl into a corner and hide.

“Stiles,” Lydia croons into his ear. Her eyes are red now, raw with too many tears. Her lipstick is smudged across her cheek and her dress is torn. “Stiles,” she says desperately. Something starts to pull her backwards and he reaches for her instinctively, but she slips through his fingers as easily as water.

He can hear her laughing now, but he can no longer see her. “Stiles,” she sings into his right ear. When he turns his head to find her all he can see is Jackson. Jackson is no longer angry, but burnt and broken. The grass he’s curled on is smoky black, his limbs are sprawled and still. When he looks into Jackson’s eyes he sees that they are wide and lifeless.

“No,” he whispers. He tries to reach Jackson, but although he can see his face as clear as day, he is too far away to get to.

Lydia is still laughing and when he looks this time he finds her, sitting on a narrow, wooden bridge, swinging her legs over the edge. She looks at him, smiling, her makeup still smudged. “Stiles,” she sighs. Her eyes turn sad as he sits next to her. “You left us, Stiles.” And without a sound, before he has time to react, her eyes slip closed and she tips forwards off the bridge.

Stiles wakes up with a gasp, his heart beating wildly. He is alone in the windowless room and the mattress is on fire. It is burning beneath his feet and next to his right hand, the flames yellow and unnaturally tall. He yells and rolls to the side, scrabbling to get away. By the time he has pulled himself to his feet, bad leg shaking beneath him, the flames have gone. Hot, black ash stains the mattress where the fire was and he can see the hint of wire showing through.

“What the _fuck_?” he mutters, staring at the mattress. He’s pretty damn sure he’s awake now. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans and rubs a hand over his face and through his hair. A throbbing headache is completely overwhelming the ache in his leg.

The door slams open and Scott stares at him, wide-eyed. “Stiles?” His eyes rove over smouldering mattress, his nose twitching slightly. “What happened?” He takes in Stiles leaning against the wall, one hand clutching his forehead. “You look awful,” he murmurs, moving closer.

Stiles doesn’t bother answering, just closes his eyes in relief as Scott’s cool hand touches his arm, draining the pain away wordlessly.

“You okay?” Scott asks after a moment, when Stiles doesn’t move. “What happened in here?” he asks again.

Stiles sighs. “I was dreaming. Lydia was in it. And Jackson. When I woke up there was just fire.”

Scott frowns at him. “You started a fire in your sleep?”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess.” He sinks back down on to the mattress, careful to avoid the burnt patches. After a moment's hesitation Scott sits next to him. "I'm not entirely sure it was a dream."

"What?" Scott looks at him sharply. "You mean - what do you mean?" A flash of hope flickers across his face before he smoothes it away.

Stiles shakes his head. He can't do this with Scott right now. He's not even sure what he means at this point, and dragging Scott into it just seems pointless. "No," he murmurs, nudging Scott with his elbow apologetically. "That's not what I meant. It was just a bit disconcerting."

Scott's face shutters and he nods mutely, looking down at his knees. "Look-" he starts, breaking off after a breath and looking conflicted. "There's nothing I can do about this. You know I'm with you every step of the way - there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe - but when it comes to . . . this . . ." Scott makes a vague gesture with his hand. "I wouldn't know where to start. I'm a veterinary assistant." Scott inhales and leans his shoulder into Stiles'. "I'm a werewolf. I'm a highschooler. When it comes to separate worlds, or whatever the hell this is - I wouldn't know where to start." He grimaces and turns his face away.

Stiles sighs. "I know, Scott. It's okay. Really." As much of a jerk as it makes him, he'd rather just get on with figuring this out by himself, than waste time trying to bolster Scott's ego as he does so.

"I'm sorry," Scott whispers dejectedly. "I don't know magic like you do."

Stiles wishes he knew magic like Scott thinks he does. Scott has always had a blind sort of faith in him when it comes to his 'spark'. "Don't worry about it, okay?" he smiles reassuringly and pats Scott's shoulder a couple of times. "Leave it to me, I'm sure I'll figure it out."

To his credit, if Scott hears the lie in Stiles' heartbeat, he doesn't say anything, merely returns Stiles' smile and promises to help where Stiles needs it.

* * *

_Ancient Greek ?? A witch ?_

_According to _The Druidic Scheme_ there are six spectrums of magic - Arcane (spellwork), Necromancy (raising the dead), Druidic (natural/herbal magic), Infernal (demonic), Divine (foretelling) and Shamanic (spiritual). Within each of the spectrums are four categories: Mental Magic, Magic of Matter, Spacial Magic and the Magic of Forces._

_Ergo: teleportation is Spacial Arcane Magic._

_Why did it bring us to this particular place??_

_Each magic type has its own signature, so maybe that explains the purple light??_

_Blindness is a side-effect of Spacial Magic ?_

_Unidentified writing in ancient Greek . . ._

_And who the hell left it in Isaac's locker in the first place?_

Stiles stares down at the notebook in front of him and sighs. His scribbles are making less and less sense to him. He feels like more questions than answers have resulted from writing down everything that he knows. He's never had to work like this before. Deaton had always given him access to his entire library when he'd presented him with a problem.

If only he had access to Deaton's library here, the solution would probably be a lot clearer. As it is, Stiles isn't sure how to locate books on magic without Deaton's help. He could try book shops and the library, but he's not certain he could differentiate between the bogus books and the genuine.

What he does know is this: Stiles is a druid. By definition he can do druidic magic - but as far as he knows druids can't do arcane magic. It's possible that the only way he and Scott will be able to get home is with the help of an arcan.

Stiles flips the notebook closed glumly and rubs the ache out of his eyes. "Great," he sighs. He leans back onto the mattress he's been sitting on for the last hour, or there abouts. Scott had generously helped him turn it over when it had stopped smouldering, but the air is still sort of pungent with the smell of burnt fabric.

Stiles makes a face and stands up, tossing the notebook onto the mattress, carelessly. He should probably go in search of Scott. It isn't exactly smart to let themselves get separated at this point, even if they are relatively trusting of their hosts. On that thought, Stiles picks the notebook up again and rips out the page he was working on. He folds it up and slides it in one of his socks . . . one of his sweaty, filthy and generally disgusting socks.

Stiles lifts his arm and takes a quick sniff of his armpit, then promptly chokes and tries to exhale as fast as possible. "Oh god," he groans. The last time he smelled that bad was . . . after Gerard kidnapped him. He shudders and makes his way out of the room.

Maggie is in the bullpen when he stumbles out. She's perched on the edge of a desk, taking apart a Glock in her hands. She smiles when she sees him. "I was wondering when you were going to come out. Must've been in there for hours."

Stiles frowns at her and crutches his way closer. "Yeah. Have you seen Scott?"

She jerks a nod. "He's outside. Tryin' to persuade Glenn to give up Elsie for a bit."

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "Elsie?"

Maggie's whole face softens. Her hands still on the Glock for a moment and she gazes towards the open doorway, leading to the parking lot. "She's my daughter. Me an' Glenn's. Almost two months old, now."

Stiles gapes at her. Then he remembers some semblance of manners and schools his expression into something more appropriate. "No offense, but you don't really look like a new mother." He gestures at her with a crutch. "Aren't you supposed to look like the walking dead around about now?" Then he slams his mouth shut and gives her an apologetic look.

Maggie's face twists for a moment before she decides on a small smile. "Yeah . . ." she shakes her head and grins at him, fitting her gun back together with three sharp movements. "'Cept that it's not jus' me an Glenn raisin' her. Everyone helps so much sometimes I feel like I'm just an aunt or somethin'." She jumps off the desk lightly and shoves her gun into the halter at her side. "So what's it gonna be? Shower or food first?"

Stiles stomachs kind of caves in at the thought of food. "Can I have both?" he asks hopefully.

Maggie rolls her eyes and smiles at him, prodding him towards the open doorway. It's bright outside - brighter than it was the day before. It takes a moment for Stiles' eyes to adjust, but when they do he counts nine people outside, including Judith and a smaller, redder baby in Glenn's arms.

Most of them are sitting in a large circle on crappy little camping chairs with an open fire in the middle. Michonne is on guard, though, pacing the line of cars along the fence. Scott is sitting in the circle amongst the others, next to Glenn, looking for all the world like he belongs there. The atmosphere is open and relaxed for the most part. Rick is playing with his daughter on his lap, with Carl sitting next to him, poking Judith's belly occasionally with a wayward finger and making her shriek with laughter.

Scott looks over at Stiles instantly and smiles. He gets to his feet and walks over, passing Maggie, who is making a beeline for her daughter and . . . boyfriend?

"Hey," Scott murmurs and he leans down to give Stiles a brief hug. "You made any progress?"

Stiles shrugs at him. "Maybe."

Scott nods, looking solemn for a moment. "You hungry?" Stiles smiles at him ruefully and Scott snorts. "Yeah. I thought you might be."

"To be honest, I'd rather get clean first. Do they have running water here?" Stiles hasn't even been to the bathroom since he got here - which on reflection is probably a bad thing.

"Uh . . ." Scott looks around. "Hang on." He jogs back to Glenn and Stiles watches as he has a murmured conversation with him, heads bent close. He feels a twist of jealousy and then abruptly hates himself for it. It's good that Scott is feeling at home here. It's even better that he's getting on with the people.

Scott glances back at him as though he knows what Stiles is thinking so he makes an effort to sort out his feelings and stop emitting alarming pheromones.

Scott turns back to Glenn, nodding and claps a hand to his shoulder as he straightens back up. He smiles at Stiles as he walks back to him. "Glenn says they managed to get the showers working a while back, but the water's cold."

Stiles heart sinks slightly at the thought of a cold shower, but he follows Scott grudgingly inside. Scott leads him down a different passage to the one with their room at the end. They enter a large locker room complete with benches and coat hooks. At the far end there are three separate shower stalls with flimsy curtains to block the rest of the room from sight.

Scott strips his t-shirt off and ducks into a stall. He grins at Stiles, looking far too excited for a cold shower, and shoves the curtain across.

Stiles crutches up to the shower next to Scott's and stares disdainfully at the grimy, slightly damp floor. His socks are getting wet.

"Hey, Scott-" Stiles asks, leaning his crutches against one side of the stall. "What about towels? And clean clothes? And soap?"

He hears Scott snort loudly from the other stall. "I don't think they have towels here, Stiles. But as for the soap-" A plastic shampoo bottle flies over the side of the stall and lands in Stiles' shower.

"Thanks," Stiles says wryly, peeling off his socks. He's careful to keep the paper inside as he drops them next to his crutches.

"Glenn said he'd try and find us something to wear," Scott continues. "He said there's a store not too far from here, so even if they don't have much we'll have some clothes that fit tomorrow." The sound of a shower starts and Scott lets out a high-pitched yelp.

Stiles' mouth twists in amusement and he peels off the rest of his clothes. His boxers are almost stuck to his skin, which is disgusting, and when he's undressed he can see where his clothes have been just from the patterns of dirt on his skin.

After a moment of hesitation Stiles unwraps the bandage covering his thigh and drapes it across one of his crutches. The bottom layer is slightly rusty-coloured and stiff. The wound on his thigh, though, doesn't actually look that bad. Scott's stitches are neat and even and the cut doesn't seem to be oozing anything in particular.

Stiles grimaces and grabs the shampoo, slathering soap all over his hair and body before he even thinks about starting the shower. The water, when it comes, is freezing. He recoils as soon as he touches it and wishes he could just crawl back into his clothes instead, but the layers of grime coating his skin are more pressing than the cold water.

Stiles closes his eyes tightly and steps into the water, then lets out a yelp when the cold water hits his leg. "Shit." He refuses to get out of the shower, though, unsure if he could get in a second time. He covers his leg with one hand and awkwardly uses the other to wash his body.

Stiles is shaking when he finally gets out. His teeth are chattering and his skin has gone red with cold. Scott is standing outside his stall when he pushes the curtain aside. He is looking at Stiles in concern.

"Are you okay? I would have come in, but I wasn't sure you would have appreciated that," Scott bites his lip awkwardly.

Stiles angles the curtain so that it's covering most of his lower half and shakes his head. "Yeah, no, I'm fine. Honestly." He looks over Scott, who is wearing a clean-looking pair of boxers and a white wife-beater. The cotton is clinging to his skin, damply and Stiles tears his eyes away with a flush. "Uh. Clothes, then?"

Scott hands him a pair of flowy, floral pants and a pair of underwear. Stiles raises his eyebrows at the pants and Scott looks embarrassed. "There's um - jeans-" he gestures to a pile of clothes on one of the benches. "But I thought these would be better for your leg? But you can have the jeans if you want," he says hurriedly.

Stiles smiles and shakes his head. "These are fine. Thanks. Seriously no towels, though?"

Scott chucks a thin cloth at his head and grins at him. The pants are and light and comfortable - much softer than the jeans Scott is currently struggling into. Stiles does feel a little naked, though as he steps out of the cubicle - which is odd, seeing as how he's been wandering around in boxers for the last day and a half.

Scott tugs a shirt on over his wifebeater and throws a t-shirt at Stiles. "You good now?" Scott asks, smiling at him, his cheeks dimpling.

Stiles shrugs. He feels a lot better than he did an hour or so ago - cleaner, healthier . . . strangely more energetic. "No shoes?" he asks, pointedly looking at Scott's sneakers and then at his own bare feet.

Scott rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Sorry. Glenn said they didn't have any spares and - you wouldn't fit mine. There's bound to be a shoe store in this town though, right? I can go out and look for some for you?" He smiles when Stiles nods and brushes past him into the shower stall Stiles had just exited. "Here," he says, pressing the crutches into Stiles' hands.

Stiles looks at them in surprise. He had completely forgotten the fact that he was currently walking around on crutches. Then he grimaces and looks down at his leg. "I'm beginning to think it's dangerous, you taking my pain so much," he says. "I still need to be careful with my leg - and if I can't tell when it hurts . . . I'm like one of those . . . congenital analgesia. Like someone with congenital analgesia."

"Congeni- what?"

Stiles flaps a hand. "You know. The thing with no pain?" Scott stares at him without the slightest spark of comprehension. "You know, like that kid on House? The one who can't feel temperature or tell when she's hurt? Like-" he smacks his hand into Scott's jaw. "She wouldn't really care if she got decked? Um . . . sorry, by the way."

Scott takes a step back and rubs at his jaw. He looks amused. "Oh. I think I remember that? There was a teenage girl and she and her mom were in a car crash, right?"

Stiles jerks his head in a nod.

"Huh." Scott frowns at him. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose I haven't really taken anyone's pain this consistently before." Scott holds it his arm and helps Stiles to the bench. When Stiles sits he crouches down and carefully rolls up Stiles' pant leg until he can see the neat stitches holding the wound together. "It looks okay," Scott murmurs, gently pulling Stiles' pant leg down again. "But you're right. We can't risk you ripping a stitch and not feeling it."

Scott looks distraught at the thought of not being able to take Stiles' pain away. Stiles rolls his eyes and smiles. "Don't worry about it. I bet it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did yesterday."

Scott snorts and helps him to his feet again. "You're not a werewolf, Stiles. You're body doesn't heal quite that quickly."

"Well, you can take the worst of it away then," Stiles says brightly.

"Lunch?" Scott asks, tipping his head in the direction of the doorway.

"Sure," Stiles adjusts himself on his crutches and makes to move after Scott. Then he curses and lurches back towards the shower stall.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a sec," Stiles murmurs, reaching down to grab his socks. He pulls out the folded paper and stuffs it into his pocket, then, dropping his socks again, he follows Scott out the door.

* * *

"So - Scott, isn't it?" Michonne takes a careful bite of the baked potato she's been tossing back and forth between her hands for the last few minutes. "You were . . . what? Fifteen when all this started? How much do you actually know about veterinary care?"

Stiles glances at Scott, who is very happily munching on his own potato. It is just the three of them sitting around the fire now. The other people in their group have all disappeared to do . . . whatever they do around here. Carol is standing on watch, gun strapped to her shoulder.

Scott shrugs. "I started early. My mom and I used to have a cat - MJ. She got diabetes and my mom couldn't afford the treatment. We got to know Deaton - our local vet - pretty well. He let me come and help him and when MJ died he offered me a job." He smiles at Stiles, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Actually both of us helped him out at first, but Stiles got canned two days in."

Stiles tries not to smile and peels the tin foil wrapping off the potato he's been cradling in his lap. It's still hot to the touch. All of the potatoes had been wrapped in foil and tucked into the embers of the fire to cook. Stiles still isn't sure where the potatoes came from, though. He hasn't seen anything resembling a garden so far.

"Deaton said I could keep my job provided I keep Stiles away as much as possible," Scott continues.

Michonne glances between the two of them. "You've been friends a long time," she observes.

"Best friends since 5th Grade," Stiles agrees, punching Scott in the arm.

"That's good," Michonne murmurs, taking another bite.

Stiles bites into his own potato and then immediately retracts his teeth, wincing. The inside is too hot and not quite cooked. He side-eyes Scott, who has almost finished his potato and is eyeing the two remaining foil-wrapped bundles around the fire.

"Do you know why Daryl and Glenn brought you back here?" Michonne asks, this time looking at Stiles.

"Uh . . . because we needed help and Scott had already helped them?"

Michonne shakes her head and sets down her unfinished potato. "The woman you saved from the well," she tells Scott, "was one of our group. You saved one of our own - _that_ is why they helped you."

Scott frowns. "You knew her?"

Michonne looks sad. She sighs and rubs a gloved hand over her face. "Her name was Sasha. You have no idea how much it means to me - to all of us - that you tried to help her."

"Oh." Stiles feels incredibly guilty suddenly, for barely thinking of the woman Scott had failed to save. It hadn't occurred to him that the group had known her. He thought she was just a stranger they had decided to save. "How long did you know her?" he asks.

"About a year." Michonne shakes her head. "But that's not why she was so important. She was one of _us_." She raises her head and glares at both of them. "Our group is family. If you become one of us we will give our lives for you, but you'd better be damn prepared to prove yourselves first."

Stiles glances at Scott, who looks like he's thinking, and wets his lips slightly. "So . . . what exactly are we?"

"Strangers we're giving a chance because you don't seem like bad people. You can give us a bit of insight into the Highway Men - who are a constant pain in the butt - as well as giving your medical assistance. But at the moment you're . . . on probation." Michonne flexes her hand towards the katana lying next to her chair. "But I'm serious when I say that if you betray us in any way, you won't even get a chance to explain yourself."

"Fine." Stiles frowns at her. "But we're not just going to sit here and give you information. We want something too."

Michonne raises her eyebrows. "What do you want?"

Stiles sighs. "I know this is going to sound . . . weird . . . but I need access to a book store. Or a library. Preferably both."

"What?" Michonne looks like she wants to laugh. "We're trying to survive here. You really think you're going to have time to pleasure read?"

"It's not for pleasure. There's something we need to know and - it's paramount to us helping you. There is absolutely no way I am giving this up." Stiles sets his jaw and stares into Michonne's brown eyes. "I need to find something."

Michonne gapes at him. "You're serious." She looks at Scott, who has snagged one of the remaining potatoes and is steadily demolishing it, and then back at Stiles. "What could possibly be so important?"

Stiles shakes his head. "That's none of your business."

Michonne's face darkens. "Secrets are a deal-breaker here. You don't get to keep things to yourself anymore. You tell us and we will decide whether or not to help you."

Stiles' heart sinks. He's been wrapped up in secrets since he was fifteen. The _only_ person he's never kept a secret from is Scott.

Telling Michonne the whole truth is out of the question, but he doesn't have a clue as to what kind of story he could spin for needing the books he needs. So maybe he can tell some of the truth?

"I'm a druid." Scott's head jerks up and he stares at him, mouth gaping. Stiles silently reaches across and closes Scott's mouth with a finger. "Ew, man. Close your mouth when you eat."

Scott slaps his hand away with a snarl. "What - Stiles what the hell are you doing?" he hisses.

Stiles looks at Michonne, who is looking skeptically between the two of them. "Telling the truth," he says. 

"This isn't a _game_ , Stiles!" Scott exclaims.

Stiles grimaces at him. "Can you just trust me a sec?" He turns back to Michonne. "I am a druid. I've been learning about magic for three years now. I need to find some books so that I can start researching." Stiles grapples at straws. "A . . . curse this big must have a source? I mean - I can . . . I might be able to find a cure."

Michonne seems to be struggling for words. "A . . . druid?"

Stiles nods firmly. "Druid."

". . . Magic . . ."

Stiles stares at her. "Hello? Zombie apocalypse? Yeah, because that just _reeks_ of science."

Michonne squints at him. "You actually believe you're some sort of . . . magician?"

Stiles squints back. " _Druid_. Druid. Dru-id."

Michonne doesn't move. ". . . Right." After a moment she hesitantly stands up, taking her katana and half-eaten potato with her. "I need to talk to Rick."

Scott waits until Michonne is out of earshot and then spins on Stiles. "What. The. _Hell_."

Stiles shrugs helplessly. "Sorry, man. I had to give her something."

" _Something_?" Scott exclaims. "Stiles, you led her to believe we were looking for a cure!"

"Well, it's not like we can't look," Stiles says defensively. "It's not really - _fair_ just leaving these people to live like this, is it?"

"And if they kick us out because they think you're crazy?" Scott counters.

"Um . . ." Stiles bites his lip. "I guess we'll go hole up in the nearest library until I've found what we're looking for?"

Scott reaches up and tugs at his hair. He looks like he wants to rip it out. "I thought you were the _planner_ , Stiles," he complains.

Stiles grimaces. "Yeah," he mutters, staring after Michonne. "So did I."


	9. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I am so sorry it took me this long to write. I have so many excuses lined up; I've been so busy getting all the sheep in, my hand swelled up to three times it's size due to an allergy and was rendered useless briefly, I started learning Korean etc. etc. buuuuut..... honestly I just couldn't concentrate on the story for ages. Sorry :( I'll try and be better. It is getting more exciting again, though now :)

Stiles feels a little like he’s been sent to the principal’s office as he paces back and forth in front of the glass cutting Rick’s office off from the rest of the bullpen. Which is ridiculous for several reasons - the primary one being that he shouldn’t actually be in trouble and he is currently here of his own volition.

Stiles isn’t actually sure where Rick is presently. He’s just sure that he is somewhere in the building and Stiles would rather wait for him here than go poking his nose into rooms he’s sure he wouldn’t be entirely welcome in.

He doesn’t know what Michonne told Rick, but he imagines it’s best to do damage control sooner rather than later. If Rick actually believes him to be bat-shit crazy there seems to be a significant chance of Stiles getting kicked out, with or without Scott.

If getting access to magic books wasn’t so imperative, he might have tried to pass the whole thing off as a joke. Unfortunately research is currently more important than sitting cosily in a fairly defensible police station.

Stiles glances through the window into Rick’s office. Sheets of paper are currently cluttering the desk and the floor around it, reminding him strongly of his dad’s office. Somehow he doesn’t think those sheets are arrest warrants and witness statements. It does make him curious as to what Rick does in his office, though. He must be planning something. Possibly something to do with the Highway Men if Michonne’s interest in them is anything to go by.

“Stiles?”

Stiles spins around and sees Glenn leaning against the doorway to one of the hallways he hasn’t yet been down. “Uh. Hi.” Stiles waves awkwardly.

Glenn frowns at him. “You waiting for Rick?” He pushes himself off the wall and walks over, hands in his pockets and slouching slightly. Glenn stops a few paces from him and smiles a little stiffly. “Listen, um-” he pauses and scratches his head uncertainly. “If this is about what Michonne said earlier . . .” he glances up at Stiles and attempts to smile more sincerely. “Just - don’t worry about it, okay?”

Stiles blinks. “Hm? No. It’s uh - wait - she told you?”

“She told Rick. I just happened to be there.” Glenn huffs out a laugh. “She said and I quote - ‘he told me he was some kind of magic-man’. She seemed kinda freaked out about it, to be honest.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _Druid_. How hard is it to remember? Druid. I said I’m a druid.”

Glenn smiles. “Okay. Druid. I’m not going to lie, she thinks you’ve got a few screws loose, but uh - like I said, you don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll talk to Rick about it, make sure he understands.”

Stiles stares at him. “Make sure he understands what?”

Glenn rolls back his shoulders and lets out a long sigh. “My Grammy - my mom’s mom - she lived in Detroit. Mom used to call her a psychic, but Grammy didn’t like that. She said she was a witch and there was no other way to put it.” Glenn smiles at Stiles more genuinely. “My parents were away for work a lot and my sisters never wanted to babysit, so I spent a lot of time staying with Grammy. She had a little shop full of the weirdest stuff - candles, herbs, little shakers of unidentifiable powders . . . I didn’t know what half of it was and she didn’t explain. She said she knew I wasn’t meant to be a witch and so there was no sense confusing me with things I didn’t need to know.” Glenn shakes his head. “Maybe it’s just ‘cos she told me stuff since from when I was really young, but I’ve always . . . I never passed off the things she did as bullshit, like my dad did.” He grins, sheepishly. “I’m going on a tangent, but - what I’m trying to say is - if you say you’re a druid, I’m not going to call you crazy.” He looks Stiles directly in the eyes. “And if you say this - thing - is all a curse . . . let’s just say it’s the most believable explanation I’ve heard so far.”

Stiles gapes at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever met another person who’s quite so willing to take him at his word when it comes to things that shouldn’t exist. Even his _dad_ thought he was making it up when he tried to explain. “Er . . . thanks?”

Glenn shrugs at him. “Look. I don’t know you. You could be a compulsive liar, for all I know, but if you want me to back you up about the preternatural, then I’ll do it without a second’s thought. Especially now, with all the - dead walking. And if . . . you think you can do anything to fix the way things are now, then I’ll help. If I can.”

Stiles fidgets, not sure what to say. “So . . . I won’t get kicked to the curb?”

Glenn grimaces slightly. “Like I said, I’ll back you up, but - I don’t really know what Rick’s thinking. It would help if you could . . . prove it.”

Stiles feels a little insulted. “I’m not a trick pony. I don’t just click my fingers and move objects through the air.”

Glenn coughs awkwardly. “I get that. I do. But . . . isn’t there anything you can show people?”

A gunshot cracks through the air outside and for a moment Stiles just freezes. Glenn jerks backwards and almost loses his footing in his haste to get to the door. He kicks it open and falls out of sight.

Stiles grapples with his crutches for a moment and then follows as quickly as he can. The parking lot isn’t the chaos he would have expected. Rick and Carol are standing to one side, conversing agitatedly while Glenn and Michonne strap guns to their shoulders and hips. Maggie is standing next to Glenn, a sleeping infant in one arm and a squirming toddler in the other. She is looking angrily at Glenn.

Stiles can’t see Scott anywhere. He crutches his way over to Rick and Carol awkwardly. “What’s going on?”

Rick stops mid-sentence and throws a narrow-eyed glare at him. “That’s none of your concern for now. Go back indoors.”

Stiles gapes. “What - come on-” he shakes his head vigorously. “No just - tell me - I can help. Where are you going?”

Carol sighs. “We don’t know what’s going on out there yet,” she explains, “but we need to be ready. Daryl and Carl are on a run, so they could be in trouble, or it could be another group. We need to prepare for the worst.”

Rick waves a hand to quiet her and turns to Stiles. “I don’t know you yet, but right now I do need your help. I need you to stay here with Maggie and help her with Judith and Elsie. Carol is also going to stay and keep watch, so it will be the three of you.” He claps a hand on Carol’s shoulder and jogs towards Michonne and Glenn.

 _The three of you_. “Wait,” Stiles mutters. “Wait-” he spins in a circle as fast as he can manage on his crutches. He still doesn’t see Scott anywhere. Why wasn’t he here? “Where’s Scott?”

“He’s gone,” Carol says crisply, marching towards the fence.

Stiles trips and almost falls in his effort to keep up with her, his crutches moving under him inefficiently. “What? What do you mean gone?”

“He jumped the wall when the shot sounded.” Carol gives him a side-long glance. “Almost before, if I’m honest.”

Stiles stops, his heart thudding loudly. He stares at the wall which is just sliding closed behind Michonne’s back. “He left?” He curses under his breath. “Dammit, Scott!” He should have known, really. Scott’s hero complex is one quirk that Stiles wishes he could beat out of him on occasion. It would really save him a lot of headaches.

“Stiles!” Maggie calls, marching towards him. Both children are screaming now and Maggie looks pissed as hell. Stiles grimaces and drops his left crutch just in time to catch the yelling toddler being shoved into his chest. “Calm her down, will ya?” Maggie turns away and begins to rock her own baby, humming to her soothingly, trying to calm her.

Stiles struggles to keep a hold of Judith, who is squirming to escape and hitting her tiny fists against his shoulder. “Hell,” he mutters, hoisting her higher against him. “Shhhh. Shh. Dumb kid. Hush now.”

Judith won’t stop crying. Maggie doesn’t look like she’s having much better luck with Elsie and Carol is beginning to look twitchy, up on her car. Stiles grits his teeth and pulls Judith’s tiny flailing arm away from his face. “Maggie,” he says. “ _Maggie_.” Maggie looks up irritably. One of her hands is working the buttons of her shirt open and Stiles looks away, embarrassed. "We should go inside," he says, looking meaningfully between the noisy children.

Maggie squints. "What?" she yells.

"WE SHOULD GO INSIDE," Stiles shouts back. Judith's crying cuts off without warning and she looks up at him with open-mouthed shock. Stiles clears his throat, and stares at her warily, leery of setting her off again. "Um. Noise levels," he says, directing his voice towards Maggie. "Noise attracts them, right? We should go inside."

Maggie stomps past him without saying anything and disappears inside the police station. Stiles follows cautiously, keeping a constant eye on Judith. He's lurching awkwardly without his second crutch, but his leg doesn't hurt. Maggie is seated at a desk when he gets inside, with her shirt wide open and a silent Elsie suckling at her chest.

Stiles flushes a hot pink. It's not that he's never seen someone breastfeed before, it's more that he's never seen anyone do it with absolutely zero modesty. Or look so incredibly grumpy while doing it.

Stiles hesitantly sits down next to her, angling his body away to give her a little privacy. Judith, seeming to realise that he isn’t about to do anything else exciting, starts to wail again. He curses and discards his other crutch, pushing the baby down so that she’s sitting on his lap. Judith just cries louder and kicks her legs into the air.

Maggie snorts next to him. “Not really a kid person, are ya?”

Stiles risks a glance at her. “Not really. Scott is always the one who volunteers to babysit and puppysit. I mostly just entertain him while he does all the work.”

Maggie peers at him curiously. “You use the present tense. No one does that anymore.”

“Oh.” Stiles shifts awkwardly. “I guess Scott’s eternal optimism rubs off on you after a while.” Maggie looks unconvinced. Judith almost falls off his lap in an attempt to escape and Stiles is distracted for a moment trying to recollect her. When he looks up again Maggie’s gaze is distant and sad. He clears his throat again. “Um. So are we just meant to sit and raise babies until the men get home?”

A small smile twists at Maggie’s mouth. “It’s not like that,” she says. “I need to stay because Elsie’s still on my milk.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, and I get to stay because I can’t walk without a stick.”

“That and your friend is out there,” Maggie says, looking at him directly.

“Huh?”

Maggie shrugs. “We still don’t really know you. So if one of you is out there, we’re sure as hell not letting the other one of you out of sight.”

Stiles sputters. “Wha-? You said we _weren’t_ prisoners!”

Maggie shakes her head. “If you both come to us and say you want to leave, that’s fine. We’ll even pack you a gift bag. But as long as you’re with us . . . we need to be able to trust you first. Tha’s all. But don’t worry. They’ll do their best to keep Scott safe for you out there.”

Stiles shrugs. He has mixed feelings about it, to be honest. He’s not really sure what chance a bunch of zombies think they have against an alpha, but he’s willing to bet they’re a minimal threat. At least - they would be against an alpha who’s willing to kill them. He rubs a hand over his forehead wearily. Here’s to hoping Scott would rather kill than be killed in the end.

Maggie lifts Elsie up and turns her around, much to the infant’s dismay, but she quiets down when she starts to feed again. Stiles watches Maggie wince and adjust her shirt around her daughter.

“Does it hurt?” he asks. Maggie raises an eyebrow at him and he flushes. “Sorry. That was probably inappropriate.”

Maggie shakes her head with a wry smile. “It’s okay. And yes. A little bit. It was worse when I first started.” Her eyes go distant as she stares at the floor. “She was so small when she was just born, ya know? But not like the movies. She was red and wet and wrinkled as hell. She wouldn’t stop cryin’, neither.” Her smile widens. “Not like Judith when she was born. She kept quiet and was as good as gold ‘slong as Daryl or Carl was holdin’ her. Or Beth.” The corners of Maggie’s mouth turn down and she clears her throat. “But Elsie - she was like the devil! Wouldn’t shut up for nothing.” She raises her head and smiles at Stiles. “She’s so much better now, though.”

Judith has quietened down now. She is lying on her side with the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt stuffed in her mouth. She is chewing with an intense look of concentration on her tiny face. Stiles sort of wants to rescue his t-shirt - he’s not a fan of wearing a saliva-drenched shirt all day - but taking something away from the child who only just stopped screaming seems a little counter-intuitive.

“You should count her toes.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “What?” he automatically glances down at the toddler’s feet and does a quick count just to check that there are, in fact, ten of them. Yep. Ten. Definitely ten. “They tend to go missing?”

Maggie smiles. “She likes it. Or sing to her. Tell her a story. Play.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose and watches Judith chew. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. He blinks. And stares. His heartbeat starts to quicken. He grabs Judith’s left foot and angles it so the heel is facing up and gapes. “What is that? What the hell is that?”

“What?” Maggie leans over to look. “Oh, that’s just a birthmark. She’s always had it.”

“She’s always had it,” Stiles repeats dumbly, staring at the little circular mark. “Holy shit.”

Maggie hums. “Yeah. What the hell is wrong with you?” she enquires.

Stiles blinks and shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Maggie repeats, skeptically.

Stiles forces a smile at her. “Strange sort of mark for a birthmark, don’t you think? It just looks odd, that’s all.”

“Hm,” Maggie agrees, studying Judith’s foot. “I guess so. Sorta like a triangle an’ a circle.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. A triangle within a circle. He really hopes it’s not what he thinks it is.

* * *

Stiles is sitting back in the parking lot with Judith sleeping in his arms when the wall opens again. Maggie, who replaced Carol on watch not too long ago, twists and turns to look from her perch on an old pick-up against the fence.

Glenn comes through first and he makes a bee-line straight for Maggie. He climbs up to the pick-up and they embrace tightly. Rick and Carl stumble through next, looking absolutely filthy and exhausted. Rick sees Stiles holding Judith and grimly walks over.

Stiles cringes as he approaches, because right now Rick looks just a little homicidal. His right side is covered in blood and he stinks something awful. Rick ignores him for the most part, though. He extracts his sleeping daughter from Stiles’ arms and looks her over, as though concerned Stiles might have killed her sometime in the last couple of hours.

Judith wakes up and starts to cry, probably to complain about the sudden stench of putrefaction. Stiles doesn’t blame her. Carl, being marginally less bloody, reaches up and takes her from his father, tutting and humming to her.

Stiles wipes his hands on his pants and grabs a crutch to lever himself to his feet. He peers around Rick and Carl and sees Michonne pulling the wall closed. Daryl is slumped on the ground holding a cloth to his arm. Stiles watches as Carol jogs out of the station with a clear plastic bag full of what looks like clean bandages. She crouches down beside Daryl and gestures at his arm, murmuring.

Stiles cranes his neck, but he can’t see Scott. He grits his teeth in determination and takes a pointed, but stumbling step towards Rick. “Where the hell is Scott now?” he demands.

Rick’s shoulders seem to sag a little. When he faces Stiles he doesn’t look angry anymore, or scared, like he had earlier. He mostly looks resigned. “Stiles,” he says, his voice gravelly. He turns away from his children and moves to stand over Stiles. Hesitantly he reaches an arm out, with clear intent to rest it on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles smacks it away as hard as he can. “I swear to god, if you drag this out any more-”

“Okay.” Rick holds his hands up, placatingly. “We couldn’t find him. I don’t know what happened, exactly, but he was a long way ahead of us.”

Stiles stares at him, outraged. “That’s it?! He was a long way ahead of you? Do you even know where he went?”

Rick raises his hand to his head, helplessly. “We think someone fired to attract walkers to where Daryl and Carl were. But we don’t know who - we just came back here as soon as we could.”

Stiles licks his lips. Shit. “So - you think Scott went after whoever it was?”

“We didn’t see him after he left,” Carl pipes up, adjusting Judith in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles snorts. “Sorry. Right.” His mind is racing. He knows Scott, knows what’s in his head, knows what he does, how his mind works, but for some reason at the moment he cannot fathom how Scott could have just left him. “Right.”

Stiles looks around for his other crutch, but he can’t see it anywhere. He must have left it inside the station, earlier. Fine. He doesn’t need it, anyway. He can walk with one crutch. Stiles sets his jaw and shoulders his way past Rick towards the wall. He hobbles past Carol, who is carefully wrapping a bandage around Daryl’s arm and straight at Michonne, who is leaning against the entrance, watching him.

“Stiles? Hold on - what - Stiles!” Rick jogs to catch up to him and then physically blocks his way, holding his hands up. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

Stiles keeps walking, forcing Rick backwards. “You know what? Thank you for your hospitality. It was greatly appreciated. Nice getting to know you all. But I don’t think we really click all that well, you know? So, guess it’s time to move on now, greener pastures and all that. Adiós. Auf wiedersehen. Au revoir, etc..”

“You’re leaving?” Rick demands. “Just like that? How far do you even think you can get on that leg?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, really. You said we could leave when we want, right? Well, I want. So get out of my way.”

“You’re loyal, I get that. That’s good, but going out there now on the off chance you’re going to find him again isn’t just stupid. It’s suicidal. And selfish. What if he comes back here and finds you gone?”

“He won’t,” Stiles shakes his head. “Scott can always find me. Now, I just need to return the favour. And no - I’m not _loyal_. It’s not about him being my alph- I mean-” he stops and sighs. “You’d go out there for Carl.”

Rick stares at him for a minute and Stiles looks back steadily, willing him to just let him go. He really doesn’t want to fight with these people. Rick drops his gaze and lets out a heavy exhale. After a moment he deliberately steps to the side and waves a hand to let Stiles past.

Stiles pauses for a moment. “Thank you,” he murmurs and trudges the rest of the way to the wall. Michonne is still leaning against it, watching him. “Can I get through, please?” he asks politely. Michonne doesn’t move. Her gaze is narrow-eyed and determining, trying to read him.”

“Michonne,” Rick barks from behind him. Michonne ever so slowly straightens and puts her weight to the wall, heaving it aside.

Stiles nods at her and marches through, awkwardly.

“Wait.” A dark hand touches his arm lightly and Stiles tenses, pausing.

“What?”

The handle of a machete is shoved into his stomach and Stiles wheezes for a moment, before fumbling to take the weapon with his free hand. He twists and looks back at Michonne, who is frowning at him with dark brown eyes. “Good luck,” she says abruptly and slips back into the parking lot, closing the wall behind her with a final _thunk_.

Stiles turns back to the passage ahead of him and swallows, grip shifting on the machete. He’s not sure he’s ever felt quite so alone as he does right now. Not that it matters, he decides, setting his shoulders. He may be an injured civilian in a world full of zombies, but it doesn’t matter, really. With a crutch in one hand and a machete in the other his head has never felt quite so clear. He knows what to do, he just needs to find the strength to do it.


	10. Triskele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, here's a new chapter - hope it satisfies!
> 
> I have a favour to ask, though. Would anyone like to give me a few ideas to re-write my story summary? Apparently I suck ass at summaries :P
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

“Oh, shit, fuck, _fuck_.”

Stiles is running. Or performing a weird thrashing sort of dance, he’s not sure. His bare feet are smacking the ground a lot harder than he’d like considering the debris covering the streets. His right hand, which is holding the machete, keeps spasming out to the side without warning. His left hand is clenched tightly around his crutch and it is so freakin’ _exhausted_ from holding his weight that he wants to just bandage it to his chest forever and let it sleep. But his leg is the worst. It’s been hours now since Scott last drained the pain out of him and short sharp stabs of _ow, frickin’ ow_ are hitting him periodically.

And the real kicker? He’s running away from a little kid. Sure, a little kid with growly teeth and white, vacant eyes, but a little kid all the same. There are no other zombies in sight, just wide, empty streets with badly parked vehicles running along the sides.

Stiles should probably just do something machete-related and stop running, but every time he gets a glance at the kid behind him he feels sick. And the thought of stabbing a kid . . . even a dead one . . . well fuck. Maybe he could hide?

A crash comes to his right and Stiles snaps his head around to see another zombie sprawled on the sidewalk next to an overturned recycling bin. The zombie raises it’s head and moans at him, scrabbling to get up from the ground.

Stiles curses and spins and debates for a second whether to carry on running or not. At this rate he’s going to get himself trapped. Better to deal with the issue now before two zombies become twenty, he reasons.

Swallowing hard he adjusts his grip on his crutch and starts towards the zombie. He has to run to reach it before it has gotten to it’s feet and from there it’s pure adrenaline which drives him to slash at its skull with the machete. He catches its jaw and cracks its head to the side, but misses the brain part completely.

“Damn it,” he huffs out, stumbling backwards a step and trying to regain his balance on his crutch. The child zombie is closer now - maybe a metre away, growling and shuffling towards him.

Stiles steadies himself and uses his crutch to shove the little zombie back a step or two. Something brushes his bare foot and he recoils instantly, spinning to see the adult zombie close its teeth on the space where his leg just was. “Son of a-” Stiles tightens his grip on the machete and swings it down at the zombie’s head again. This time the blade connects, sinking two or three inches into the skull. The zombie drops like a stone, pulling the machete and Stiles down to his knees.

Stiles doesn’t have time to dislodge the machete before the kid zombie is _right there_ so he drops everything and gives the kid a shove, which barely does a thing, so he widens his arms and then claps both hands around the zombie’s ears as hard as he can. The zombie kid’s skull explodes into flames and Stiles yells in surprise, shoving it away again. He scrambles backwards as fast as he can and manages to push himself to his feet. The zombie takes three lumbering steps towards him before giving a shudder and falling, lifeless.

Stiles bends over and heaves onto the street.

“Wow, you’re not as helpless as you look,” Glenn remarks from a few meters away. He’s holding a gun loosely in one hand and is watching Stiles contemplatively.

Stiles straightens up and wipes his mouth. “The fuck? Were you _watching_?”

Glenn’s face breaks out into a grin and he slides the gun back into his shoulder holster. “Nah. I got here in time to see you work your-” he wiggles his fingers wordlessly. “You know. It’s pretty impressive.”

“And unintentional,” Stiles mutters. He spits a couple of times, but the taste of regurgitation doesn’t go away. “Got any water?”

Glenn shakes his head and moves closer. “Just now realising what an impulsive idiot you are? You don’t even have shoes on.” He reaches behind him and pulls his backpack around to his side. He digs out a bottle and throws it at Stiles.

Stiles catches it awkwardly and drinks, realising as he does so just how thirsty he actually is. Maybe Glenn is right. He _is_ an idiot.

Glenn crouches down next to the corpse of the adult zombie and starts working on its shoelaces. Stiles takes another swig of water and watches him.

“I doubt they’ll be my size,” he comments.

Glenn pulls the shoes off and shrugs. “They’ll work for the moment. You can’t run around barefoot here. There’s broken glass in most places and when you don’t have antibiotics it’s just suicidal.” He stands up and places the shoes at Stiles’ feet.

Stiles rests a hand on Glenn’s shoulder and awkwardly pulls them on. He was right. The shoes are too big and the laces don’t go up very far so they slip whenever he takes a step.

“So,” Glenn grunts bending to retrieve Stiles’ crutch and yanking the machete out of the dead zombie’s skull. He wipes the machete off on the zombie’s clothes and hands them both back to Stiles. “First priority is finding something you can run in.”

Stiles takes the crutch, frowning. “No. First priority is finding _Scott_.”

Glenn sighs. “Listen, I came here to help you, so listen to me, yeah? There’s no point trying to find him if it’s going to kill you to do so. And what if he’s in trouble? You going to throw your shoes at walkers? First we prepare, then we search.”

Stiles grits his teeth. He can’t deny that he needs Glenn’s help, but sitting back while Scott’s in trouble grates on him. “And after we get shoes you’ll help me find Scott?” Glenn ducks his head and smiles. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

Glenn leads him down tiny side streets and through fenced-off alleyways, darting ahead and scouting out the streets. He makes them double back several times for no other reason Stiles can see than that the streets are too wide. It seems to take a long time for them to find the shoe store that Glenn is aiming for.

They emerge into a wide main street with an epic car crash in the middle of it. About six vehicles are rammed into each other and the buildings on the other side of the street, some upside down, one burnt to black and quite a few with zombies trapped inside. There don't appear to be any other zombies on the street, but Glenn seems agitated nonetheless. He spends a good few minutes tucked in against the side of a store just watching, not moving.

Stiles feels tired and restless at the same time. His leg is aching so bad and he’s covered in sweat. He’s fairly certain blisters are going to be less of a probability and more of an inevitability by the time they actually find some shoes that will fit him.

Eventually Glenn pushes himself off from the wall and moves a few paces into the street. He turns and gestures for Stiles to follow him and then sneaks along the street to the right, quietly and carefully. Stiles sighs and keeps a few paces back, keeping an eye on the zombies in the cars as he goes. Two of them have seen them and their faces are pressed against windows, hands scrabbling to get out.

Glenn stops in front of a tiny store Stiles would have walked straight past. “Wait here for a minute,” Glenn orders. He peers in the grimy store window for a moment but then pulls back, shaking his head. Very slowly he pushes against the door, knife held up ready in his other hand. The door pushes in easily and quietly and Glenn disappears inside, closing the door behind him.

Stiles hesitates, worrying his lip. Glenn seems like he can handle himself just fine, but standing outside while he enters unknown, possibly dangerous territory seems like a very bad idea.

He edges towards the door and tries to look in the window. It is completely covered with grime and blood; he can’t see a thing. Just as he is reaching for the door Glenn yanks it open and gestures for him to come inside.

“Thought I told you to hang back,” Glenn mutters, looking disgruntled. He closes the door behind Stiles again reducing the inside of the shop to grungy dimness.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you needed me to save your ass,” Stiles retorts.

“I _didn’t_.”

“Whatever, man.” Stiles takes a few steps and slams his shin into something hard. “Fuck!” He bends down to clutch at his leg - thankfully not his bad leg - and hits his head on something fabric-y and solid. “The hell-?” he jerks backwards and almost loses his balance.

Glenn shoves into him and sends him sprawling onto - a couch? “For god’s sake,” Glenn mutters. “Just stay there, okay?” A small flashlight clicks on and he moves further into the store. “Right, what size are your feet?”

Stiles sulks and rubs his shin. “About a 9.”

Glenn disappears into what looks like a storage cupboard and emerges a few minutes later with a pile of cardboard shoe boxes in his arms. He dumps them at Stiles’ feet and starts pulling the lids off. “Most of us wear boots, tough for walking in, not too hard to run in . . . but if you’d rather wear sneakers they wouldn’t be impractical.”

Stiles smirks. “Don’t worry. I’ve done my research. I know exactly what the best types of shoes are for a zombie apocalypse.” He reaches down and sifts through the boxes. “My dad used to judge me for it, but bearing my current circumstances in mind I’m pretty sure all those late nights researching was one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.” After a moment he leans back with a pair of durable walking boots in hand and wrinkles his nose. “Is this it? Is there nothing else here?”

Glenn blinks at him. “What . . . exactly are you looking for?”

“Combat boots,” Stiles sighs, toeing off the flimsy zombie-shoes. “I guess these’ll do.”

Glenn snorts and leans back on his heels. “It’s a small store. Yes, this is pretty much all they have. Sorry to disappoint.” Then he clicks his fingers and reaches for his backpack again. “I did bring you some socks though,” he says searching in his bag. “In case we found some shoes for you.” He pulls out two of the most grimy and smelly socks Stiles has ever seen.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, prodding at them. “When was the last time these were washed? Are they yours? Oh my god, ewwwww.”

Glenn smiles at him sunnily. “Thought you’d appreciate them.” Stiles whimpers as he pulls them on, trying his best to ignore the smell and general crustiness. “At least they’re dry,” Glenn remarks.

Stiles gives him a snotty look. “If they weren’t I wouldn’t even consider putting them on. I could get trench foot. Or a fungal infection.” The socks are thick and long, despite their cleanliness problem, and when Stiles pulls the walking boots on his feet do feel comfortable - ignoring the crusty areas - and a lot safer.

“Okay,” Glenn grunts, standing up. “Think you can run in them?”

“Theoretically,” Stiles mutters, struggling to his feet and stamping a few times.

“Good.” Glenn swings his backpack over his shoulder. “In that case follow me. We’ve got one more place to stop by.”

“What?” Stiles glares at him. “You said if we got shoes you’d help me find Scott.”

“And we will,” Glenn says patiently. “Just trust me. One more stop.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment. “Why are you even here? It’s not like you really know me or Scott that well. Not well enough to risk your life for us, anyway.”

Glenn smiles tightly. “I’m here to help. Isn’t that enough?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Enough? You have a girlfriend-”

“Wife,” Glenn corrects.

“. . . _wife_ \- and a baby. You have a pack-” Stiles stops talking abruptly and winces. “I mean - a group. Family, whatever. So no, not really. It’s not _enough_. You need to tell me why you’re helping me. What’s in it for you? Or have we become a helluva lot closer during the last couple of days than I realised? Because none of your group seemed all that invested in helping strangers before from what I saw.”

Glenn rubs his forehead and groans. “Can we please not do this now? I’m here because I care. No-” he raises a hand when Stiles opens his mouth to retort. “I do care. I care whether you and your friend survive. You seem like good people and you’d be surprised how hard that is to come by these days. My intentions are pure, I swear. Are you gonna trust me?”

“You know, you’re really starting to piss me off,” Stiles growls, picking his crutch up from the couch where he’d dropped it earlier.

“Trust me,” Glenn repeats. He moves over to the door and opens it cautiously, waving Stiles over when he deems it safe. “Follow me.”

Stiles follows him in a cloud of resignation and wariness. All he wants to do right now is find Scott and all it feels like he’s doing right now is running around in circles.

* * *

Stiles stares at the back of Glenn’s head as they walk, trying to figure him out. When he had left Stiles had been entirely prepared to face the world by himself. He wasn’t expecting help - wasn’t expecting any of Rick’s crew to offer a hand. Glenn is an anomaly he wasn’t anticipating. Rick would put Carl and Judith first, Michonne and Carol don’t particularly seem to care for either him or Scott and Glenn has a wife and a baby to look after. If anyone was to come after him he would have suspected Daryl first.

Glenn seems to care but no matter how hard he tries there is no way in hell Stiles can believe that he would put two almost-strangers before his own family. He simply has to have an ulterior motive. And if Glenn won’t tell him what it is then Stiles will just have to watch and wait.

The shadows from the buildings are getting longer and darker. If the sky wasn’t so cloudy Stiles imagines that he would currently be seeing the sun setting. He is starting to get twitchy about being in the streets in the dark. And his frustration with Glenn is growing. He might have found Scott by now if it wasn’t for the shoe shop and this new current mission to god knows where.

Glenn has slowed his pace and is watching around corners more carefully before he moves. He hushes Stiles every time he makes a noise above 20 decibels and keeps a hand fixed on the handle of his knife. He won’t go near the main streets anymore, instead scouting out the tiniest, narrowest roads he can find.

Stiles is fairly certain they are getting towards the edge of town, but his sense of direction is admittedly muddled in the twilight.

Glenn stops abruptly as they come to a corner and slinks into the nearest building’s shadows. About a hundred metres ahead six zombies are shuffling about aimlessly. Glenn sighs and leans back against the wall. “We need to get to the small store just past those walkers,” he looks at Stiles seriously. “Can you help me?”

Stiles forces a nod. “Yeah.” He tightens his grip on his machete and sets his shoulders.

“Okay, go!” Glenn sprints out into the street and tackles the first zombie he gets to, killing it before the others have even noticed his presence.

Stiles lurches after him as quickly as he can. Four of the zombies are shuffling determinedly after Glenn but one has caught sight of Stiles. It is a female with long grey hair and a dull red, torn dress. Stiles determinedly looks away from her face and uses his crutch to smack her legs, trying to make her fall. The zombie stumbles slightly but continues to totter towards him. Stiles sees Glenn effortlessly taking out one of the zombies tailing him out of the corner of his eye.

With a growl, Stiles drops his crutch and swings at the zombie in front of him with both hands on the machete. As if in slow motion a gap appears at its neck and the zombie’s head tips sideways, unbalancing the rest of the body and sending it tumbling to the ground in a pile of limbs.

Stiles is just leaning down to finish it off when a mangled hand claws at his shoulder. With a horrified grunt he jerks backwards and shoves the zombie away. The zombie falls straight into Glenn’s arms and promptly gets its head smashed in.

Glenn pushes the body to the ground and catches his breath for a moment. He peers over at Stiles. “You good?”

Stiles nods mutely. He clutches his chest in a vain attempt to slow the pounding of his heart. He feels sick again. Stiles isn’t sure the feeling of nausea has ever completely left him since waking up in this world. Possibly something to do with the walking rotting flesh that keeps trying to kill him.

Glenn walks over and aims a hearty kick at the head of the zombie still at Stiles’ feet before finishing it with his knife. “Okay. Let’s go then.” He yanks his knife out and marches doggedly past the corpses of the other zombies.

Stiles gawks at him. And then at the six zombies on the ground - none of which he himself had killed. Glenn hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Glenn pauses several metres away and twists to look back at him, eyebrows raised. “Are you coming?”

“Uh.” Stiles coughs. “Yep.” He picks up his crutch, wipes the blade of his machete on the zombie’s dirty red dress and follows Glenn to the small store he had been headed for. He stops when he catches sight of the sign outside. A symbol he’d recognise anywhere - a triskele.

Stiles hesitates, his mouth going dry. “Glenn? What is this place?”

Glenn twists away from the door he was just about to try and frowns at him. “I thought you’d know the symbol. You - did say you were a druid.”

“What?” Stiles shakes his head and jabs a finger up at the sign. “That’s a triskele. Nothing to do with druids.”

Glenn shakes his head. “Nevermind.” He turns back to the door and pushes against it unsuccessfully. “I saw this place on a run a few weeks back. I thought of it when you told me what you were.” He sets his shoulder to the door and rams into it several times before giving up. “Maybe there’s a backdoor.”

Stiles scans the front of the store. There are no windows the door is wood instead of glass. The buildings on either side look like offices or apartments and there is no gap in between. “There might be roof access,” he suggests, craning his neck backwards. The store only has two floors, but the buildings on either side each have four. “If we go through one of these buildings we might be able to get across to the roof.”

Glenn looks up and then nods. “Good call. Let’s go.”

“Wait - hang on a minute!” Stiles makes a grab for Glenn’s sleeve as he brushes past and yanks him to a stop. “What the hell is in this building that you want so bad? What the hell is here that it’s worth delaying finding _my best friend_?”

Glenn gives him a frustrated look. “Look around, Stiles! It’s getting dark and we are in a town! You do not want to be walking the streets around here with less than perfect light.”

“So what, you make me walk around all day finding fucking _shoes_ so that you have a reason to trap me in a building for hours?” Stiles stares at him, trying to figure out his angle. “I mean why here, anyway? We passed half a dozen places further back with far easier access you could lock me in.”

Glenn pulls his arm free. “I’m not trying to keep you from Scott. I just think that it’s important you be here right now. Look - how about this? You look at what I wanted to show you and get a bit of sleep and then at first light we can leave and look for Scott. Deal?” He blinks expectantly at Stiles. Stiles has the savage urge to take a baseball bat to his legs. Something of the sentiment must have shown on his face because Glenn sways backwards slightly and holds his hands up in defence. “You know you can’t look for him now.”

“He’s my _best friend_ ,” Stiles says savagely.

“And I need your help,” Glenn says quietly. “We all need your help - or at least the help of someone like you. Please just come inside and look at what I’ve got to show you.” His face twists and he looks away for a moment. “You said you might be able to help. A few months back we met this man - Eugene. He also told us that he could fix the world. He said that he was a scientist and that he was the only one who knew a cure. Long story short, he lied, but I wanted to help him then and I want to help you now. Even if there’s just a small chance.”

Stiles stares at him. “What - why did he lie?”

“Because he wanted us to help him stay alive.”

Stiles flounders for a moment. “He - he had to pretend to have a _cure_ for you to care about saving his life? What the fuck is wrong with you people?” He draws in a sharp breath, trying to sort through his thoughts. “I never said I wouldn’t help you, but you’ve got to know that sorting shit out? It comes in second to keeping Scott safe. Everything comes after Scott’s safety. Surely you have to understand that?”

Glenn looks guilty for the first time since he started dragging him around. He glares at the sidewalk sullenly. “I’m just asking for the night, Stiles.”

Stiles stares into the darkening streets around them, completely torn. Going after Scott now seems even stupider than this afternoon. He’s seen how Glenn handles himself, but Stiles was barely able to hold his own against one and half zombies. He narrows his eyes at the top of Glenn’s head. “If I stay here tonight will you promise to help me find Scott at first light?” Glenn’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “No detours, no persuading me to do anything else. Just straight to Scott.”

“Okay,” Glenn says quietly, a smile beginning to blossom on his face. “I promise.”

“You better fucking stick to it,” Stiles growls. “What’s in here, anyway?”

“You’ll find out in a minute if you let me show you.”

Stiles snorts. “Fine.” He marches past Glenn to the wooden store door and stands in front of it for a moment, contemplatively. He’s never tried anything like this before, but his magic lately has been . . . more compliant. He bends and squints at the crack in the door, but can’t see much. It doesn’t matter really, he figures. Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates on using his spark to push magic into his hand. When his hand starts to feel hot and heavy he slams it, palm first, against the keyhole, just beneath the door handle.

The door vibrates beneath Stiles’ palm but doesn’t give. When Stiles pulls his hand away he sees the blackened imprint of it left behind on the door. Behind him Glenn whistles admirably. “Are you sure there isn’t a better way to do that?”

Stiles scowls. “I haven’t exactly finished my training. Blunt force is pretty much my only weapon right now.”

Glenn snorts. “Okay. Wait-” he pulls Stiles away just as he’s about to give the door another mental punch. “I think you weakened it.” Glenn sets his shoulder to the door again and this time it gives, springing open and slamming against the wall with a crash. Glenn falls into the doorframe and laughs. “Now we just have to find a way to stop the walkers from getting in.”

Glenn shines his flashlight around the inside of the store and Stiles instantly realises where he is. “Your grandmother’s witch shop?” he gapes.

“Uh - not quite. I told you, that was in Detroit. But yeah - this is . . . pretty similar.” Glenn closes the door behind them and starts moving furniture in front of it, his flashlight clenched in his teeth.

For a moment Stiles is left to look around the shop in pitch blackness. For a long moment he forgets how to breathe, his heart hammering in his chest. He closes his eyes and slaps his chest, gasping in short, shuddering breaths. _Fuck_. Stiles forces his eyes open and stumbles back towards Glenn and his tiny beam of light, trying not to freak out.

“You okay?” Glenn lays a hesitant hand on his arm, apparently done with barricading the entrance.

Stiles twitches back from his touch involuntarily. He nods, blinking rapidly, stupidly grateful that Glenn can’t see his expression right now. He clears his throat. “Fine. Can we - uh - can we get some more light in here?” Glenn moves further into the shop without comment and Stiles follows closely, eyes on the beam of light like his life depends on it.

There is a small fireplace past the counter at the back of the store. Glenn shines his flashlight on the wall adjacent to the fireplace, illuminating hundreds and hundreds of books, all crammed on shelves or piled on the floor. Stiles stumbles closer to look. The books all look old, but weirdly vibrant as well - and he can feel the hum of magic in the air.

“Pick a book for kindling,” Glenn murmurs. “Something useless.”

Stiles stares at him. “What?”

The flashlight jerks impatiently. “Come on, you said you wanted more light. So - kindling.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters, reminded that the flashlight is the only light currently in the room, and if it goes out . . . he grabs an old dictionary off a pile on the floor, passing it to Glenn wordlessly.

Glenn clamps the flashlight between his teeth and starts to tear out the pages, scrunching them up and arranging them in the fireplace. After a minute he stands and moves some books off a chair in the corner. Without warning Glenn smashes the chair down into the floor. A leg snaps off and he swings it again and again.

Stiles lowers himself uneasily to the floor, feeling a mixture of awe from the presence of magic and dread at the thought of the flashlight going out, leaving him in darkness.

Glenn piles the pieces of the chair on top of the paper and pulls out a box of matches. The fire crackles to life slowly but surely, filling the room with a flickering light. Glenn clicks his flashlight off and pockets it. He spreads his hands and turns around the room slowly. “Well . . . I’ll leave you to it.” He points over his shoulder towards the front of the shop. “I’ll just be out there if you need me.” Glenn disappears through the doorway leading to the rest of the store leaving Stiles alone in the firelight.

Stiles turns slowly towards the - _books_. Even from a casual glance he recognises countless titles, titles he had only ever heard of in Deaton’s clinic - titles written through hundreds and hundreds of years. He can feel the power and the knowledge locked inside each one and he _knows_ with absolute certainty that the key to getting him and Scott home is in this room.

He just needs to find it.


	11. Scott

Scott slows to a stop a mile or so away from the police station, a little out of breath, and a lot confused. He leans against the wall of a bank and turns his head up and down the street. It is completely still, nothing moving even at his peripheral vision. He calms his breathing and leans further into the wall, trying to concentrate on what he can hear.  
  
There was one, single shot, then nothing. He had a pretty good idea of the direction when he started running, but he’s heard nothing since - he’s not even sure how far away it was. Probably running straight for the sound of a gun being fired isn’t the smartest thing to do in this world, but it was more instinctual than anything. Besides, even if this decision gets him shot, normal bullets will only slow him down - probably. At least . . . it’s very _unlikely_ that a bullet would kill him. Very unlikely. He hopes.  
  
The town is pretty quiet around him. He can hear movement a couple of streets away - presumably zombies - but the sounds are quiet and lacking in the particular, frantic note of a struggle he has come to recognize very well over the years.  
  
Scott can’t smell anything underneath the stench of death which seems layered over the town. It is far worse here than it was on the road with Stiles, or in the woods where they first found themselves.  
  
He levers himself off the wall and walks to the end of the street, his sneakers sounding dramatic and loud with each step he took. The noise makes Scott wince now that he’s listening, and he can’t help but worry what he might attract with the sound - though he is well aware that his super senses give him a very inaccurate delineation of what it actually sounds like.  
  
He stops when he reaches the intersection and studies each road minutely. The zombie sounds he’d heard had come from somewhere to his right, so he wanted to avoid that, if possible. But he could go straight ahead, to the left, or back the way he came. He’s no longer sure what the right thing to do is. At the moment he’s walking almost blindly, trying to locate a sound that has long since faded. But if he goes back, there could still be someone out here who needs help.  
  
After a long moment of indecision he turns left, deciding to search a little longer, but in a way he can take a roundabout route back to the station as he does so. He’s not sure what, exactly, he was expecting to find, anyhow. A person shooting a zombie? A person shooting into the air to attract attention? A person shooting a person? The thought makes Scott sour. He hates this place. Everything he’s seen since he’s got here has made him sick to his stomach. In a way he was glad that Stiles couldn’t see at first, it let him keep a closer eye on him and shielded him from the things Scott saw. Though, he knew it wasn’t fair, and ultimately was nonsensical. Stiles was likely far more terrified with the loss of his vision than he would have been if he had been able to see the zombies initially. He would likely have handled it better than Scott had.  
  
He’d certainly handled the whole ‘werewolf’ surprise better than Scott had.  
  
But it doesn’t matter now. The only thing Scott needs to think about right now is finding the source of the shot - and then getting back to Stiles. As much as he trusts those people - he isn’t ready to leave Stiles alone with them for an extended period of time.  
  
Scott is startled out of his reverie by a sudden flurry of footsteps to his right. A hundred metres away, somewhere beyond the row of buildings lining the street, he hears a clatter as though someone just ran into something heavy - and then, under it, the sound of wet breathing. But over it all wafts the distinct and pungent smell of fresh blood.  
  
Scott swings around and follows his nose. He has to walk further down the street, past three or four buildings before he comes across a narrow street and is able to move closer to whoever it is.  
  
The buildings are mostly residential in this neighbourhood, all terraced houses with little to no yard space. Scott can hear movement in several of the houses he passes, and wonders why he didn’t hear it before. There are probably zombies in any number of the houses in Madison, trapped and starving in the rooms they died in.  
  
A small part of Scott wants to find every last one and lay them to rest once and for all, but the larger part of him cringes at the thought. As much as Rick and his group seem to think so, the zombies aren’t dead. They’re animate creatures with need just like anything else. In fact the similarities between an out-of-control werewolf and the zombies are scarily significant. Perhaps the people they used to be are still aware of their actions and simply unable to fight their instincts.  
  
More than anything Scott wants to find a way to reverse this - to return the zombies to their original selves - or at least to return them to lifelessness if dead is what they really are.  
  
The smell of blood is stronger with every corner he turns and the smell is starting to make him salivate, a little. It’s not a reaction he’s proud of, but the scent and sight of blood since he was bitten has never been an offence.  
  
Scott runs up against a high brick wall blocking off the alley he has been following. He pauses, placing a hand against the wall. Whoever it is is barely the other side - he can hear their breathing, ragged with pain, and smell the person beyond the scent of their blood. Everything else is quiet. Whatever happened, it’s over now.  
  
Scott hesitates a moment more, then reaches a hand over the top of the wall and launches himself over it. He lands on grass the other side; long, dead grass tangled with weeds. He is in someone’s garden. There’s a run-down storage shed tucked in the far corner of the yard. Leaning against it, slumped on the ground is a girl with wide, slanted, brown eyes. She is staring up at him with an almost shocked expression on her face. One hand is clutched against her stomach where Scott can see a large, dark stain of fresh blood on her dress, and her other hand is shaking, pointing a heavy looking pistol in Scott’s direction.  
  
Scott swallows and raises his hands slowly. There are two zombies lying on the ground between them, unmoving. He can see some sort of metal rod sticking out of the skull of them. With a grimace he tears his eyes from them and back to the girl. She hasn’t moved - doesn’t seem particularly capable at the moment.  
  
Scott clears his throat cautiously. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
The girl looks at him blankly. Her heart is racing and her temple is covered with beads of sweat.  
  
Scott takes a tentative step forwards and then freezes as the girl’s hand jerks with a loud _crack!_. They stare at each other, mouths wide with shock. _She shot at him_.  
  
Scott can only guess, from the distinct lack of pain that the shot went wide. The girl’s hand is trembling violently now, swaying down and side to side. Scott lurches forwards without much thought and pulls the gun from the girl’s weak grip. He steps back as soon as he has the weapon and tosses it into the grass.  
  
The girl is staring up at him in alarm, clearly terrified now that her gun is gone. Before Scott can say anything to placate her, she opens her mouth wide and lets loose an ear-piercing shriek.  
  
The sound makes Scott wince and he glances around nervously, wondering if either the girl's friends, or a crowd of zombies are about to come pouring into the garden in reaction.  
  
He squats down in the dirt next to her and holds out a wary hand to somewhere in the neighborhood of the girl's shoulder.  
  
The scream cuts off abruptly as she flinches away from him, then freezes as the movement causes a surge of fresh blood from her midriff. Scott's nostrils flare with the heady scent of it.  
  
“I'm not going to hurt you,” he repeats. “I want to help. Will you let me help you?”  
  
The girl seems to have stopped paying attention and is instead staring in shock at the blood coating her fingers.  
  
Scott isn't really prepared for her to start crying, but cry she does: huge shuddering sobs that seem to be causing her more pain than anything.  
  
Scott tries to touch her again and is rewarded with a stinging slap to his hand and a yelled 'no!’.  
  
Scott sighs, withdrawing a few feet. He looks around him again, at the bodies on the ground, and the large, looming house the yard is attached to. The door to the house is slightly ajar, so, after a moment’s hesitation, he edges away from the weeping girl and makes his way towards it.  
  
The inside of the house is dark and musty. He can’t hear movement from inside, but the air is tense in a way that convinces Scott that the house isn’t completely empty. The kitchen and living room - or what he can make out of them from the little light that is trickling in through the boarded-up windows - appear to be still and untouched, so he moves to the narrow staircase on his right and starts a cautious ascent.  
  
Each step creaks ominously beneath his weight, making him wince at his unstealthy progression. He pauses at the stop of the stairs, ears pricked with awareness. A small hallway worms its way along the length of the house with four - no, five - doors, all closed, leading off of it.  
  
Scott paces the hallway slowly and stops outside each door to listen before moving on. He’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting to find but by the time he has reached the last door he knows for certain that the house is empty except for one, fast-as-a-rabbit heartbeat coming from the second he door he paused at.  
  
The door is locked when Scott comes back to it - or at least jammed with something behind it. He contemplates whether or not it’s better to just break the door down or knock. He has no idea who is inside - whether or not they have a bazooka trained at the door this very second - but he can taste the stench of their fear in the air.  
  
Eventually Scott clears his throat and taps very gently on the door. “Is someone in there?” he asks softly. “Whoever you are, I’m not going to hurt you.” He waits, but there is absolutely no response from the other side. Not even movement. “My name is Scott,” he tries again. “I think your friend is just outside in the garden? She’s hurt, a little, but the zombies are dead.” Still nothing. Scott taps on the door again. “There is no one here who is going to hurt you now.”  
  
The silence on the other side of the door makes Scott want to bang his head against the doorframe in frustration. He is getting absolutely nowhere with either of these people, and he hasn’t felt this useless since he was bitten. He wishes Stiles was here. He’d know what to do. Or, at the very least would provide some unhelpful suggestions that would ease the tension a little.  
  
Scott contemplates kicking in the door again, but then, unbelievably he hears a small rustle of movement and there is a click as the door is unlocked from the other side.  
  
Scott holds his breath and stands a little to the side in case whoever it is comes out swinging. The handle turns and door is pushed open just a few inches. He can barely see the figure in the dark, but he gets the impression of two large eyes staring at him from halfway down the doorway.  
Then a small voice asks; “You promise not to hurt us?”  
  
Scott swallows hard, then kneels down in the hallway and looks as hard as he can at the figure in the doorway. Long, black hair tumbles across the small hand clutching the door handle, and slanted brown eyes stare solemnly back at him.  
  
“I promise absolutely never to hurt you,” Scott says gravely.  
  
Without warning the little girl seems to crumple and she flings herself at him, wrapping her skinny arms around his neck and tucking her feet against his chest. Scott holds her automatically, his mouth opening in surprise. Her feet are bare and cold through his t-shirt and so small he can hold them against him with one hand.  
  
“Where’s Miri?” The little girl whispers against his neck. “Can you take me?”  
  
Scott stands awkwardly, trying not to jostle her. “Of course. We’ll go right now, okay?”  
  
He moves slowly down the stairs, noticing with every creak the little girl tenses. He tries to distract her. “Hey, my name’s Scott. What’s yours?”  
  
“Miri says I’m not allowed to,” she mumbles into his skin.  
  
Scott smiles involuntarily. “You’re not allowed to tell strangers your name?” he asks. A small nod. “Well, that’s super smart. You’re right. Maybe you can tell me later, when we know each other better, is that okay?” Another nod.  
  
Scott allows his smile to widen as he steps out of the house into the yard. The girl hasn’t moved from her position against the shed, though she seems to have stopped crying. The child Scott is carrying squirms against him as soon as they get outside and she kicks to be let down. She runs towards the older girl as soon as her feet touch the ground and launches herself straight into her arms.  
  
The girl, Miri, crumples in relief and wraps her arms tightly around the child, fresh tears leaking down her face. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she mutters over and over. “You’re okay, you’re okay . . .”  
  
Scott edges towards them, trying to get a peek at the girl’s wound, see how bad it is. Miri seems to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye and she looks up at him. “Who _are_ you?”  
  
The little girl squirms around until she is tucked into Miri’s side and facing Scott. She smiles slightly. “He’s Scott,” she whispers loudly into Miri’s ear. “He found me in the bathroom.”  
  
Miri doesn’t take her eyes off Scott. She looks more lucid now, then when she did when Scott first found her. Her left arm is wrapped around the child’s shoulders, while he right is still pressed into her stomach. “What do you want?”  
  
“To help you,” Scott replies sincerely. “I just want to help, that’s all.” He glances at her stomach again. “Is it still bleeding?” he asks, though he can tell that it is.  
  
Miri glances down and then up at him again. “What do you want?” she presses.  
  
“There is a group of people here, in Madison. They’ll take you in if I ask them to.” Scott hesitates. “Unless you have a group of your own?”  
  
Miri doesn’t answer. Her eyes are slitted with suspicion and pain. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”  
  
After a moment Scott nods and retrieves the gun from the long grass he tossed it into before. He’s reluctant to hand it back to the girl who tried to shoot him no more than fifteen minutes ago, but he’s not sure he’s going to get anywhere with her unless he shows that he is willing to trust her.  
  
Miri snatches the gun from his hand as soon as he gets within reach and instantly looks more secure with the heavy weight back in her hands. She unwinds her arm from the child’s shoulders and takes her time checking the gun over and making sure it’s loaded, but when she’s finished she doesn’t aim it at Scott again, which he is immensely grateful for. He can only imagine Stiles reaction at finding out he’d got himself shot because he handed a gun to a high-strung, suspicious stranger.  
  
Scott holds up his hands. “I trusted you. Now, will you trust me?”  
  
The child looks between the two of them nervously. “He’s nice, Miri,” she whispers again. “He brought me here.”  
  
Miri looks like she’s sucking on a lemon when she answers. “Fine. You want to help us? Help us find the Highwaymen.”  
  
Scott is careful not to give a visible reaction. “What do you want with them?”  
  
Miri glances at the child under her arm. “We heard they’re girls. They might take us in.”  
  
Scott blinks at her in confusion. “You want to join them because they’re girls?”  
  
Miri curls her lip at him in disgust. “You think I’m gonna take a chance on a group that’s run by men? Just tell me whether you’ll help us find them or not. Help us or _go_.”  
  
Scott doesn’t bother hesitating. He shakes his head. “I’ll help you,” he agrees, “but I’m not sure they’re the people you think they are. They kidnapped and tortured my friend.”  
  
“Was your friend of the male variety?” Miri asks snidely.  
  
Scott nods reluctantly.  
  
“Then it really doesn’t affect me. You know where they are?”  
  
Scott nods again. “I can take you. But first you’re gonna need me to take a look at that wound.”  
  
Miri grimaces and struggles to sit up more. “Hey, Dyl?” she murmurs to the child. “Think you can go see if the vampires have anything in their pockets?”  
  
The child nods vigorously and moves towards the two dead zombies without hesitation. Scott makes half a move to stop her.  
  
“Don’t,” Miri snaps. “They’re dead and she can take care of herself.”  
  
Scott frowns after the little girl. “I still don’t think she should be seeing that.”  
  
Miri laughs harshly. “The only way for her not to _see that_ is if I was to poke her eyes out.”  
  
Scott flinches. He kneels at her side and gently pries Miri’s fingers off her stomach. She winces. “Vampires?” Scott enquires quietly.  
  
Miri shrugs. “They’re dead and they feed off the living, don’t they? What do you call them?”  
  
“Zombies?” She looks at him blankly. Scott sighs. “Never mind.”  
  
Miri lets out a little sob of pain as he tries to pry her blood-soaked shirt away from her abdomen, and Scott automatically lays a hand on her bare arm and absorbs as much of her pain as he can.  
  
Miri freezes beneath him. “What the hell did you just do?” She gasps.  
  
Scott curses and tries to play it cool. “Hm?”  
  
Miri shoves his hands away from her and clutches her stomach again. “I said _what the hell did you just do?_ ”  
  
Scott sets his jaw. “I’m just trying to help you. Are you going to let me have a look at your wound or not?”  
  
Miri shakes her head vigorously. “You don’t come near me until you tell me what the hell that was. Where-” she frowns and stumbles over her words. “Where did - what happened to my pain?”  
  
Scott glares at her. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you and so far have done absolutely _nothing_ to earn your distrust. Whereas _you shot me_. Now, do you wanna bleed out when I can save you? Or are you gonna let me help?”  
  
Miri flushes under his gaze and reluctantly lifts her hands away. “You better tell me soon,” she mutters, looking away as Scott lifts her shirt.  
  
Scott ignores her and concentrates on the mess of blood and skin he can see. “What did this?”  
  
Miri grimaces. “Fingers. One of the vamps was trying to claw my stomach open.” She pauses. “Is it bad?”  
  
Scott prods slightly at the mess and tries to encourage two flaps of skin together. Miri shudders beneath him.  
  
“Okay, that feels fucking weird.”  
  
Scott stands up. “I’m going to see if I can find anything in the house to stitch it up.” He takes a final glance over at the child clambering over the bodies of people long dead and retreats into the house, sickened and afraid.

* * *

He doesn’t find anything he can use to sew up Miri’s stomach, but he does find some bandages in the kitchen, in unpierced plastic, so he wraps them around her as tightly as he can and ties it off. The blood is already beginning to seep through as he finishes, so he knows it won’t last long. As well as it being an incredibly bad idea her moving in her current condition.  
  
Scott tries to persuade her to take a day or two and rest in the house, but Miri won’t hear of it. “No. I need Dylan to be safe.”  
  
Scott blinks in surprise. “Dylan? I didn’t know that was a girl’s name.”  
  
Miri’s face darkens. “Well, it is, all right?” she snaps. “And we don’t call her that. We call her Dyl now.”  
  
Scott had the feeling he was missing something here - something that Stiles would have twigged by now. But his head feels heavy and he knows that the most important thing for him to concentrate on right now is to get Miri to the Highwaymen before it gets dark.  
  
Scott snaps the handle off a mop he finds inside and offers it to Miri to use as a walking stick after she vehemently and rudely refuses what Scott thought was a perfectly gentlemanly offer to carry her.  
  
They exit through the front door of the house onto a street Scott hasn’t seen before. It takes him a while to get his bearings. He can feel both Miri and Dyl staring at him critically. In all honesty he wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the direction they were travelling in after they ‘rescued’ Stiles from the Highwaymen. He was a lot preoccupied with the Stiles’ heartbeat was stuttering against his back and the scent of his blood in the air.  
  
Now, as he looks left and right, he can’t even remember which way the police station is in. After an awkward moment, he coughs and nods to the left. “Right then. This way.” He hopes.  
  
It’s slow going. Miri seems to wince every other step she takes and leans heavily on her mop handle. Scott wants to take her pain again, but he’s afraid of what her reaction will be. Dyl is also a slow walker. She’s clinging to Miri’s pant leg and has her thumb in her mouth. Her eyes keep drooping shut. Scott can’t stop looking at the dried blood stains covering the knees of the child’s dress.  
  
He weaves them in the direction he thought he came from earlier and eventually spots a church he thinks he passed before. If the police station is to the right then that means . . . Scott rocks forwards on his toes. Straight on, perhaps? He glances behind him and notices that in the time he was standing there deliberating, Miri has sagged against a wall and Dyl has sat down in the middle of the road.  
  
“You okay?” He asks Miri cautiously. He takes a discreet sniff, but her wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore than before. “What’s going on? Can you walk?”  
  
Miri stares up at him blearily. Her hand is shaking violently where it’s wrapped around her make-shift walking stick. “I think I need to sit down,” she murmurs.  
  
Scott grimaces, looking around. “Look, either we camp out somewhere for the night, or we keep moving - but there’s no way I’m finding their place in the dark.”  
  
Miri shakes her head. “No. No. We go on.”  
  
Scott rolls his eyes. He couldn’t think of a worse idea right now, and that’s saying something. “Well, you can’t walk, that’s for sure,” he grumbles, looking around. “Wait here, I’ll come back.”  
  
Miri slides down the wall until she hits the ground and Dyl crawls into her lap looking tired and frightened.  
  
Scott doesn’t want to leave them where they are. They are stupidly vulnerable just sitting out there in the open, especially with neither them in any state to defend themselves. But Miri has her gun, and he doesn’t really have another option except to carry both of them.  
  
Scott runs. He doesn’t bother turning down side streets, just keeps running straight until he finds something. He isn’t really sure what he’s looking for. Any vehicles he finds will be long drained of any juice. And he was never that good at cars, anyway. He just needs to find something Miri and Dyl can sit in, like a wheelbarrow . . . Scott falters, staring up at the massive Costco sign across the street. Or a shopping cart? That would work, right?  
  
There are surprisingly few shopping carts outside the store, and Scott surmises that he’s not the first to realize the potential. The ones that are left are chained together on the left of the massive, automatic, glass doors in the centre of the building.  
  
Scott doesn’t bother shifting, just gives the end of a chain a couple of vicious kicks until it springs loose. The end shopping cart starts to roll down to the road and Scott grabs it and sprints back the way he came.  
  
When he’s about five hundred metres away Scott slows and stops, ears pricked forwards. Voices drift towards him. Soft, female voices asking if someone’s okay. He hears the snort and stamp of horses . . . he abandons the shopping cart in the street and edges towards the noise, careful not to attract attention. By the time the girls come into view he knows for sure that it’s the Highwaymen.  
  
The Highwaymen found Miri and Dyl and they are helping them. Four Highwaymen help lift Miri onto the back of a horse. A fifth Highwayman is kneeling beside Dyl, offering her jacket.  
  
Scott almost can’t believe it. Surely this isn’t the same group that attacked and kidnapped Stiles without so much as a by-your-leave. What exactly was the difference? He finds it extremely hard to believe that the Highwaymen are this trusting because of Miri’s gender. Or is it because she is wounded? Because she has a small child with her? Or was this some kind of trap and Miri and Dyl were a part of the Highwaymen all along?  
  
Either way, it’s not really Scott’s concern anymore. The people he set out to help are safe and being taken care of. He needs to get back to Stiles. God knows how worried he’s going to be by now. If he’s even safe . . . Scott is just about to slip away from the group and leave when one voice rings out above the rest, clear as day.  
  
“Homeward bound, guys!” A sixth figure is striding out of the church, wielding a blood encrusted axe, with an unstrung bow slung across her back. She swings herself up onto a horse and gestures for the others to follow her. She is beautiful and luminous, her hair falling in dark tumbles down her back, looking just like she did the day Scott met her.  
  
Scott can’t breathe.  
  
“Allison?”


	12. Coming Clean

Zombies - massive earth shattering plagues of the undead - are Arcane Magic. That is something Stiles knows for sure now. And Arcane magic that big? There is no way that he, a druid, can do anything to reverse it. He doesn’t even want to touch the Necromancy part. The truth is - Necromancers as a sect don’t really exist. You just tend to get, for example, Arcans or Infernals who practice Necromancy. So even though zombies should definitely be shelved under the whole ‘Necromancy’ part of the equation, the fact is that the thing that caused this was definitely a spell - cast by an Arcan.

Stiles almost can’t believe that _this_ is what two hours of research has given him. Two hours of reading about a problem that’s not even his - a problem that apparently he can’t even fix. He wouldn’t even be concentrating on the zombie problem right now if Glenn wasn’t sitting, reading, right next to him.

Stiles can’t honestly bring himself to resent Glenn for it, though. He knows that Glenn, just like him, is only trying to look out for his family first. But if there really is nothing Stiles can do . . . well, then he’s just wasting valuable time that could be spent on his and Scott’s problem, isn’t he? He just hopes there’s a way around the whole Spacial Arcane thing he figured before.

Spacial Arcane. Stiles scans the book titles in front of him casually, careful not to disturb Glenn’s concentration. He reaches for a book titled _The Arcane Art_ first, figuring that whatever is in it, at least he is definitely in the right category.

After about thirty seconds of scanning the contents he closes the book with a frown. The book is clearly written as a guide for Arcans. There’s nothing in there that would be of any help to a druid determined to try his hand at a spell.

Maybe he is concentrating on the wrong thing, after all. Learning about Arcane magic won’t turn him into an Arcan, but what they _do_ have is . . . Stiles picks up a book with the silhouette of a wolf on the front. Then he spots another: _MCreatures and M: A Disaster or a Science?_.

Huh. Stiles picks it up, flipping it open. He can feel Glenn’s eyes watching him and turns to give him a quick smile. “Found anything yet?”

Glenn shakes his head. “What are you reading?”

Stiles shows him the cover. “I’m probably spiralling a bit,” he says sheepishly.

“‘MCreatures’?” Glenn enquires.

“Magical Creatures. You know, stuff like unicorns, mermaids, zombies . . .” Stiles says casually.

Glenn is nodding. “And you think the Walkers might be something like that? Are we going off the plague spell idea, then?”

Stiles pauses. “. . . no. It’s probably still a spell. I was just thinking . . . if we can’t defeat the spell, maybe we could use something else.”

Glenn looks blank. “You want to defeat the Walkers with a mythical unicorn?”

Huh. Stiles tilts his head at them. “Actually - yeah. Maybe. I mean - not a unicorn, no, but if you were bitten you might not be immune, per se, but you’d certainly be a hell of a lot harder to kill.” He flips through the book in his lap, now looking for something completely besides what he got it for. He stops at the were- chapter.

Glenn peers over his shoulder. “Were-?”

“Werewolves.”

Glenn sits back with a thump, his face darkening. “Are you serious?”

Stiles glances up at him. “Werewolves are real. They’re stronger, faster and have super fast healing. I might . . .” he hesitates. “There _may_ be a way to turn your entire group into werewolves, but - potentially that could cause far more problems.”

Glenn is staring at him, with an indescribable hope in his eyes. “What? We - how? How do we do that?”

Stiles bites his lip. “It’s not the ‘how’ that’s the problem. The problem is what’s going to happen to an entire pack of werewolves without an alpha in sight.”

Glenn frowns at him. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re saying.”

Stiles taps his fingers on the cover of the book and studies Glenn. “You know what,” he says slowly, “maybe I will.” He leans forwards. “But first you have to promise me that after I’ve helped you . . . you’ll help us.”

* * *

“Scott is a werewolf?”

Stiles nods.

“. . . and Scott is an alpha. Who can turn other people into werewolves by biting them.”

Stiles nods.

“Which would mean that we can survive gunshot wounds and zombie bites.”

“Well . . . theoretically. Possibly. Probably?”

“So if Scott bites each and every one of us we’ll be tougher and have more chance of survival.”

Stiles nods.

“But we’ll lose control on the full moon?”

“Yeah . . . but I have an idea to help you with the first few full moons. You should be fine.”

“And Scott will bite my daughter?”

“If you want.”

“Will she be okay?”

Stiles hesitates. “There’s no guarantee. I’ve never actually seen a child get bitten before - let alone a baby.”

“Would she be safer if Scott didn’t bite her?”

“Not necessarily. Your entire pack could be a danger to her on full moons. Especially at first.”

Glenn doesn’t speak for several long moments. “But you don’t know how to reverse the spell and this is the best option you can come up with to help us?”

Stiles nods.

“You think this is a good idea?”

Stiles nods.

“And what you said before - about us needing an alpha - what did you mean by that?”

“Packs need an alpha to survive. If there’s no alpha then there’s not really a pack - just a whole bunch of omegas who are gonna get out of control really fast. And the only way to become an alpha is to kill another alpha.”

“But you said Scott is an alpha.”

Stiles nods.

“Then - and believe me, I get the issue of Rick accepting leadership from a teenager, but - why can’t he be our alpha?”

Stiles gazes at him steadily. “Because Scott already has a pack. Somewhere else. And you need to help us get back to it.”

Glenn grimaces. “You lied. About living in that warehouse in the woods. Didn’t you?”

“To be fair, we really didn’t think you were gonna believe what actually happened.”

Glenn sighs. “What actually happened?”

Stiles rises to his feet and starts to pace the length of the room. The light outside the small window above him is starting to turn suspiciously grey. “Scott is my alpha and our pack and family are all back there. We have to get back to them somehow.”

“Stiles,” Glenn starts, sounding pained. “I know this might not be what you wanna hear, but . . . if you haven’t seen them for for so long,, then how do you even know they’re alive?”

Stiles shakes his head impatiently. “No, you don’t understand. We live in California, but we don’t live in _this_ California. _Your_ California. We’re not from this universe.”

Glenn digests this slowly. “Stiles - I get that you’re magical. I can even believe that your friend grows claws and fangs - at a stretch - but this . . .” he looks pained. “Is a bit much?”

Stiles makes a face. “You’re probably right. It doesn’t matter right now, anyway. All you gotta know is: Scott can bite you; but he’s leaving; and you’re gonna help us do that.”

Glenn smiles weakly. “Okay. Well, I guess this gives me new incentive to find Scott, then.”

Stiles nods. “Fantastic.”

* * *

Stiles knows where Scott is. He knew the entire time, in a way. There was no way they could stay in such close quarters to the Highwaymen without Scott eventually finding out about Allison. And to be perfectly honest, Stiles needed Scott to find out about Allison. It was much too big to keep to himself - he almost wishes he’d told him from the start, despite how much that would have hurt him, because it was almost guaranteed to have been less painful than the way Scott no doubt found out.

Stiles looks at the greying light of dawn and back to the dozens of books spread on the floor, waiting for him to discover their pages. Waiting for him to glean the truth from them. The key to getting home is in this room, _he knows it_ , but Scott has been gone too long already. He is facing the image of his dead girlfriend, completely unprepared with the added knowledge that the one person who has his back on the entire planet lied to him about it. And then there’s the fact that his dead girlfriend’s body is currently the body of an absolute frickin’ _psychopath_.

Stiles doesn’t have a choice. He grabs the book he knows he’ll need for Rick and aims a gentle kick at Glenn’s thigh. “Come on. We better go.”

Glenn looks up at him in surprise. “I thought you wanted to stay a while.”

“We said we’d be gone by dawn, didn’t we?” Stiles gives a heavy shrug. “It’s dawn.”

Glenn narrows his eyes. “Didn’t you say the key to getting you home was here? And you haven’t found it yet?”

“There’s no point finding it if Scott’s dead, is there?” Stiles snaps, feeling suddenly malicious.

Glenn gets up without another word and gathers his things.

Stiles doesn’t wait for him, just grabs his crutch and forces his way through the barricade Glenn had set up at the door last night.

It’s quiet outside, and for a moment, in the silent, grungy light, Stiles is pulled back home to the Beacon Hills Reserve - a place where he’s spent countless dawns, waiting for Scott and the others to finish their full moon, naked romp in the woods.

The putrid smell rising from the body of the zombie Glenn had taken out last night effortlessly brings him back to the present.

He would cover his nose and mouth if he could, but he has a book under one arm and a crutch under the other. And - crap. He’s forgotten his machete. He swings around and almost trips over Glenn, ducking out of the doorway. He gives him a bemused look. “Thought you might like this,” he suggests, holding up a fabric shopping bag.

Stiles gives him a twitch of a smile and drops the book inside. Glenn helps him tie it to his waist so that he doesn’t have to hold it, then hands him his machete.

“Do you know how to get to Allison’s?” Stiles winces and corrects himself. “I mean Silver - I mean - the Highwaymen. Their base?”

Glenn looks at him curiously. “I can take you there. You think they have Scott?”

Stiles’ lip curls. “I think if Scott even bumped into them out here, he’s not going to be anywhere else.”

“You don’t seem to think much of your ‘werewolf’ friend’s ability to protect himself,” Glenn comments, then he adds, “which is, incredibly disconcerting considering the plan we’ve just come up with.” He squints at Stiles. “Are you _sure_ you can’t reverse the spell?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _I’m not an Arcan_. And I’m not worried about Scott getting kidnapped, I’m worried about his heart being sliced in two.” Glenn opens his mouth again and Stiles snaps, “ _Figuratively_.”

Glenn squints at him. “Okay,” he agrees after a moment, “but this requires an explanation. On the way, of course.” Glenn nods to his left. “This way.” And when Stiles sets out in front of him, he swears he hears Glenn mutter to himself, “This way to certain death.”

* * *

Glenn hasn't spoken a word since they set out. He's been walking a little ahead, scoping out each area with his gun out before Stiles gets there.

Stiles wonders what he's thinking, whether he's still deciding how much of Stiles's story is true, how many of his promises are legitimate. Stiles doesn't blame him if he is. Even with a knowledge of the supernatural some of the things he told Glenn would be hard to swallow. Even from a trusted source, which . . . Stiles isn't sure he is.

Truth be told, Stiles is no longer sure how much he is using Glenn to find Scott, and how much he genuinely wants to help him. He doesn’t know if Scott will even agree to bite Rick’s group when they find him - or if Stiles’ plan to create an alpha out of thin air will work.

Nothing is certain. Stiles doesn’t know for sure if Scott’s alive, if he’s really with Allison, or even if they can actually make it home again. He doesn’t know how long they’d survive in this world if they can’t. Not because Scott isn’t capable - but because he’s _good_ and living in this world, doing the things that Glenn and his family have had to do, losing his pack completely . . . it would kill them both. Scott first, because he’s good. And then Stiles because he no longer knows how to live without Scott. Hasn’t had to since he was ten.

They are out of the town now. The last house they passed was ten minutes ago. Stiles’ feet hurt. His new boots are rubbing him in all the wrong places, despite their initial comfort. And quite frankly there's some pretty nasty itching going on down there, that Stiles is certain is the product of Glenn's socks.

He misses his jeep. Hell, he misses public transport. He'd probably even trade his machete in for a horse at this point. Somehow Stiles didn't think that saving Scott would require quite so much walking.

Stiles is probably completely wrong about Allison, anyway. Scott probably went back to the police station yesterday. He probably had a hot shower and went to bed. Woke up to pancakes and cute babies. He probably hasn't even noticed Stiles is missing yet.

He should just turn around right now. Scott's going to think he's a massive dumbass when he finds out what happened. He’d be laughing at him for weeks.

Stiles stops walking and leans on his crutch for a moment, trying to ease the ache in his feet, one at a time. His left hand has even started to cramp up, from grasping the crutch so tightly. He waggles his fingers and tries to waggle his toes in their crusty prison. It's then that he hears it.

At first Stiles isn't even sure what it is - doesn't recognize the sound - or at least doesn't connect the sound to the relevant knowledge in his brain. He just knows that whatever it is is new, getting louder, and rapidly freaking him the fuck out.

"Glenn!" He hisses, frantically.

Glenn has already heard it, judging by the look on his face. He nods to the side of the road. “Get down. On your stomach. The long grass’ll cover you.”

Stiles doesn’t wait to be told twice. He dives to the side and tries to lie down without stabbing himself with the machete. The book is underneath him, digging painfully into his hip. He looks up and spots Glenn scratching something into a tree in full sight of the road.

“Glenn!” he whisper-yells. The noise is louder now and he recognizes it for what it is: the rumbling sound of an engine. An actual vehicle. Stiles doesn’t care how much he was wishing for just that a minute ago - the sound is filling him with almost paralysing anxiety. Anyone could be in that vehicle. Anyone at all. “Glenn!” he yells again.

Glenn slinks to the side and drops out of view.

Stiles counts 68 seconds before he reckons the vehicle is within eyesight. His instincts are tearing at him, urging him to look, to run, but he forces himself to lie completely still. If he doesn’t move, then whoever it is won’t see him. If he runs, they’ll see him for sure.

The rumble gets louder and louder - it must be metres away. Another few seconds and it’ll be gone, Stiles assures himself. Just a little longer. Then, impossibly, the vehicle begins to slow, and then stops completely. The roar of the engine seems deafening , barely two metres from his hiding spot, he assumes.

Nothing happens for a moment. The vehicle doesn’t move. The engine doesn’t turn off. There is no slamming of car doors, or footsteps on the asphalt. Then a low whistle comes from inside the vehicle. Quiet, but precise.

Unbelievably Stiles hears a rustle to his left and sees Glenn’s head pop up out of the grass, the rest of his body in hot pursuit and he gives a massive goofy wave.

“Hey, Tara!”

Stiles groans and his head slumps forwards. The engine turns off and there is an excited flurry of movement from around the vehicle as Glenn approaches. Stiles hears three or four more voices, all casual, greeting Glenn like they were just meeting up for coffee or something.

“I’m guessing you’re Stiles?” A cheery voice asks directly above him.

Stiles sits up and takes in the girl standing over him. She’s young - possibly his age, or slightly older, with a round face and a toothy smile.

“Who are you?” he asks, looking around for his machete, which he must have dropped at some point.

“Friend of Glenn’s,” the girl smiles. “I’m Tara. Need any help?”

Stiles reluctantly accepts her outstretched hand and lets her heave him to his feet. “Thanks,” he says grudgingly, when she picks up his machete and offers it to him.

He glances towards the road and sees a rusted pick-up with a crowd of people around it. He scans the faces. Rick. Daryl. Carol. Michonne. No Maggie. No Carl. There are a couple of people standing by Glenn who he doesn’t recognise - an enormously muscled man and a skinny teenager.

Everyone stops talking as he approaches with Tara, the two strangers giving him suspicious looks. Rick looks grim as he turns to face him.

“What, uh-” Stiles clears his throat. “What are you guys doing here?” Out of the corner of his eye he notices the symbol Glenn had carved into the tree earlier. It looks oddly like an ear. Suddenly everything clicks into place. “You knew,” he gasps, pointing at Glenn accusingly with his machete - not his best move, he finds, having the weapon ripped from his grasp by an impassive Carol. Stiles takes a hasty step backwards.

“I knew,” Glenn confirms. “I radioed Rick before we left, told him where we were going.”

“Why?” Stiles demands. “Why are you here?” He glares at Rick. “You weren’t willing to help me before.”

Rick meets his eyes steadily. He’s sizing him up, assessing him more thoroughly than he did before. Whatever Glenn told him, it’s made him rethink what he thought he knew about Stiles. “Glenn told me that you can help. Help us in a real way. I want to know if that’s true.”

Stiles flounders. He has no idea how much Glenn has told him and telling Rick something he doesn’t want to believe right now is likely going to irrevocably destroy any trust he’s managed to build. He looks at Glenn for help.

Glenn shrugs helplessly.. “Like I said, you have to trust me,” he says to Rick. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles wants to roll his eyes. Right. Place your complete and utter faith in a plan that hasn’t been revealed that could possibly endanger the lives of everyone here. Rick would have to be insane to accept Glenn’s request as surety.

Rick looks torn. Utterly torn as though he is seriously considering trusting in Glenn’s untold plan. Stiles notices his eyes dart to Daryl’s for assurance, as though the answer lies there. The men appear to have a silent but in-depth communication that ends with Rick spreading his hands and nodding to Glenn.

“God knows I trust ya. If you think these kids are worth it, then I believe ya. But we’re gonna do this right,” he adds, glancing at every face in the group. “If we gotta extract a teenage boy from an armed gang, then we’re gonna need a solid plan.” Rick fixes Stiles with an unblinking stare. “I will not accept casualties to our own.”

* * *

Scott is torn up on the inside. He has never felt so defenseless or confused about how he should be feeling.

Here is Allison - the visage and very essence of the girl he first loved. The girl who died in his arms. The girl whose loss he still feels like the absence of a limb. She’s here, right in front of him, her perfect brown eyes staring straight into his.

His entirety wants to reach out to her, hold her in his arms, _feel her_ and never let go.

She’s _Allison_.

But she’s not.

Her eyes hold no recognition. She moves with almost the same feline grace she did before, but there’s a different edge to it now. One that scares Scott shitless. This is Allison as she might have been under Kate or Gerard’s influence. The killer inside of her has almost entirely destroyed the girl - the youth. The innocence.

She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t look as though she loves anyone anymore.

Scott wonders what could have done this to her. This Allison. She could have gone through anything. For certain, he knows that she never made it to Beacon Hills. She hasn’t recognized him. She didn’t react when he murmured the name ‘Lydia’. Did her father die? Did she have to watch everyone she loved get slaughtered by the nameless dead?

Scott doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what happened to the violent shadow of a ghost standing before him. He doesn’t know her.

Allison is staring at him across from a wide metal table. She looks angry, like she’s been ignored. Perhaps she has been. She could have given an entire soliloquy and Scott would barely have noticed. She looks unnerved, as though she recognizes something unwelcome in the way he’s looking at her.

Scott is handcuffed to his chair. He had surrendered easily when the Highwaymen had noticed and beset him. He hadn’t fought when they tied him to a horse and dragged him into a far longer run than he should have been capable of. He recognized the school as they rode up to it. He hadn’t protested when they cuffed him to the chair.

Scott didn’t have to say a word - Allison never left his side. She looked at him with trepidation and revulsion.

She slams her palm on the table, and Scott feels the metal shiver against his skin. He can’t really see her properly. She’s there, but Scott’s memories of her seem to keep barging and flooding their ways into his consciousness. Her voice sounds as though it is being muffled through a pillow and brick wall combined.

He’s not an idiot. He heard the Highwaymen call her Silver. He knows she leads them. He knows that Stiles saw her.

In a way it almost hurts him more that Stiles saw and chose not to tell, then seeing her alive right now.

But he knows why Stiles didn’t tell him. He would have done the same. If he could protect Stiles from the pain of something similar by lying then he would in a heartbeat.

But Stiles couldn’t protect him from this. This was probably inevitable from the start. What were the chances of Scott landing in a parallel world next to _her_? No. This was fate. Or it was planned. It doesn’t really matter anyway because he’s going to die.

Scott recognized the look in Allison’s eyes the second she saw him. It was the kind of look a bear might give to an abusive owner when it finds itself free.

It doesn’t matter why Scott is here. It doesn’t matter that his - that _Stiles_ kept something so enormous to himself. It doesn’t matter what happens from here on out, because it’s none of Scott’s concern anymore.

Allison is going to kill him. And there is nothing in this world or the last that would make Scott fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so - again - sorry about the delay :/ I'm a bad person.  
> My beta has swanned off to Romania so if there is anything in this chapter I should be aware of, please let me know? :D  
> Hope you enjoy!


	13. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter guys! .... don't hate me for the massive delay?

“Are you sure?”

Daryl pauses and gives Stiles an increasingly grumpy look.

“I’m just saying-” Stiles holds a hand up in surrender and walks in silence for a few moments. His crutch keeps slipping and sinking in the soft earth of the woods. The inconvenience of it means he’s leaning much more on his bad leg. Which, in turn, is an inconvenience. His thigh feels as though it’s threatening to rip apart anew with every step that he takes.

Glenn is walking half a step behind Stiles, so that he’s constantly under surveillance. It’s a lot like being arrested by one of his dad’s underlings, actually. A hint of disapproval mixed in with a whole heap of mother-hen protectiveness. It’s making Stiles skin itch like a nasty rash.

Stiles glares at Daryl’s back. “Are you sure?”

This time Daryl doesn’t even bother to react, just keeps on walking ahead - although Stiles notices his steps getting just a little stompier as he goes.

Glenn sighs quietly. “He knows where he’s going. We’ve lived here a little while, Stiles. And Daryl’s one of the best woodsmen out there.”

“It’s just - if this is going to work we need to be in the right place. Not too far, not too close - and somewhere we can-”

Glenn prods him in the side. “Shut up. I told you - he knows where he’s going. We know what we’re doing. All you have to worry about is your job, all right?”

Stiles sours a little. He’s normally the ones making the plans. He’s not sure he likes this side of Glenn - the bossy, arrogant side, that is.

“Wait.” Glenn lays a restraining hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pauses, looking ahead intently.

Stiles follows his gaze and noticed that Daryl has disappeared.

There is silence, then a strange twang and then something heavy falls to the forest floor about ten metres away.

Daryl glides back into sight a moment later and nods to Glenn. “Was just one,” he grunts.

Stiles swallows and realises his mouth has gone dry. “Zombie?” he enquires.

Neither man bothers to answer him, but Stiles sees the dark, bloody heap on the ground as they pass a few moments later. He's careful to breathe through his mouth.

Daryl leads them to a massive, dead tree and then stops. He and Glenn look at each other, exchange a nod and then both move off to scan the immediate area.

“I guess we're here, then?” Stiles asks nobody in particular, and leans against the tree. He can't particularly see any difference in this spot from anywhere else they've been walking for the last half hour.

After a minute Glenn trots back into sight and joins him.

“Why here?” Stiles asks.

“Like you said - not too far, not too close,” Glenn shrugs. “Now comes your part. You ready?” He looks at Stiles intently. “The most important part Stiles. We can't do it without you. At least - not as well. You ready?”

Stiles swallows. He feels slightly dizzy and his mouth tastes like dust. “You got anything to eat?”

Glenn swings his backpack onto the ground and rummages inside. He tosses Stiles a container of water.

Stiles catches it and screws the top off, drinking greedily. “Oh, god this is insane,” he gasps when he's finished. “This is a stupid plan. What makes you think it's even gonna work?”

Glenn passes him a little baggie. “The only reason it's going to work is because you're going to help us. It wouldn't work without you, so that's how I know it'll work with you.”

Stiles stares at him suspiciously. “You're just trying to make me feel better,” he accuses.

Glenn smiles and doesn't negate the fact. “Eat,” he advises.

The contents of the baggie turn out to be some kind of dried meat. Stiles takes a cautious sniff and then a bite. “Oh my god…. That's _so good_. What is it?”

“Squirrel,” Daryl replies. He's standing, leaning against a tree not far away, watching Stiles. Like a creep.

Glenn smiles slightly proudly. “Daryl’s the king of hunting squirrels. They're about all we ate in the beginning, right Daryl?”

Daryl grunts. Possibly in agreement. Stiles isn't sure. He’s not sure he cares, either. The squirrel meat is calling to his tongue in very convincing ways.

Daryl snatches the last piece of meat away from him just as Stiles is raising it to his mouth. “Hey!” he yelps. “I was eating that!”

“You’re taking too long,” Daryl grunts, sticking the entire piece in his mouth.

“I need my strength,” Stiles scowls, staring at Daryl’s chewing jaw.

“Scott needs your help.”

Stiles sighs. “Fine. Help me build a bonfire, then.”

Daryl squints at him. “A bonfire? Glenn said you could . . .” he waggles his fingers vaguely, in a way that Stiles would never connect with magic if he wasn’t looking for it.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re asking me to burn down a forest. Trust me - any help with starting it is gonna make this so much easier.”

Glenn shrugs and starts to gather the nearest pieces of dead wood lying on the forest floor, dragging them around the dead tree. After a moment of exchanging squinted eye-looks, Daryl and Stiles join him.

Stiles falls to his knees and starts to gather up everything dead and dry he can find, shoving it all into a haphazard pile around the tree. Daryl and Glenn bring over some heavier branches. He’s never made a campfire or anything of the sort, but he knows the basic makeup of what he needs - leaves on the bottom, denser wood at the top. When they’ve finished they have quite a decent pile made up.

Stiles crawls nearer and reaches inside to touch the leaves and moss at the centre of the bonfire with the tips of his fingers. He closes his eyes. A tingle runs like an electric spark down his arm and out through his hand. He concentrates and breathes air into it, adding another spark, and another.

He can feel the heat suddenly, burning his fingers, and he wrenches his hand back in surprise. Opening his eyes, he can see the small movement of light flickering within the pile, rapidly gaining strength.

Stiles smiles and pushes himself awkwardly to his feet. He stands and watches as the fire really takes hold - beginning to smolder and burn the larger branches he had collected. In the middle of it all the dead tree stands straight and tall, unaffected by it all. With a hint of reluctance Stiles moves closer and lays his hands on the tree, tucking his crutch under his armpit as he does so.

“Sorry,” Stiles whispers, leaning his head against the bark. He feels the heat of the fire below scorching his chin and cheeks. He stops thinking and pushes, pulls at the spark within him, wrenches it out of him, forces the heat down his arms, into his hands, into his fingers. He burns the shape of his hands into the bark of the tree and _feels_ it when it catches alight. This time it’s not like the fire he made to burn the leaves and twigs. It feels like an inferno. It feels unnatural and terrifying.

Stiles stumbles backwards, looking with wide eyes as the tree burns before his eyes - not slowly but _completely_.

This is it. He grips his crutch and turns towards the school. “Come on, then. We need to get there before the fire does.” He doesn’t wait to see if Glenn and Daryl are following, just walks on, determinedly. He touches and scorches every tree that he passes along the way. He can feel the fire spreading. He can feel it within him and he can hear the loudness of it, crackling and roaring. The heat of it is burning through his thin pants, searing the back of his neck.

* * *

Scott closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cold stone of the wall behind him. The room is silent. Silent in a way that reminds him of a graveyard. Eerie. If he concentrates he can hear the sounds of life outside; soft, murmured conversation, the rapid heartbeat of someone either very afraid or someone who’s pushing their body to the limits. The smell of cooking meat wafts through the gap under the door, making his stomach grumble.

Scott doesn’t bother to try to move from his chair. The handcuffs around his wrists are tight, chafing. He could break them if he really tries but . . . he doesn’t want to try. He knows he’s being a fool, that waiting here minute by minute is only bringing him closer to his death - but he can’t help it. The last person he saw was Allison, barging her way through the door, slamming and bolting it behind her. He wants to see her again. Even if it’s not her. He needs to see her again. He can’t get her image out of his head. She even smells the same - minus the lavender scented perfume she used to favour, of course. And the added three layers of dirt between her skin and the air.

He wants to know what she’s going to say. He wants to know her story - how it differs from the Allison he knew. How it’s the same. He wants to hear her talk. He wants to hear her laugh. He wants to see her smile - those perfect dimples, her crinkled up eyes.

He knows she won’t. She hates him. She’s mad. The last thing she’s going to do is smile at him. But he wants it anyway. Craves it in a way he didn’t realise he needed after all these months.

It turns out he doesn’t have to wait long for her to return anyway. The door clicks open softly - a direct antithesis to the way she exited. Scott smells her before he sees her. Allison steps through the doorway slowly, a plate laden with hot food in her arms. She closes the door behind her and walks over the table, setting down her plate before she even looks in his direction.

Her eyes flicker up once, catch his gaze on her, then return to the table. She pulls out the chair opposite his and sits, arranging her dinner in front of her deliberately.

“Scott,” Allison begins pleasantly, picking up a fork.

Scott jolts in surprise, looking at her wide-eyed.

Allison’s lips curve up slightly and she takes a small bite of her food. “Scott. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. No?”

Scott blinks at her. He can’t quite work out how she knows his name - unless - unless . . . but no. He would know if she had Stiles, wouldn’t he?

Allison watches him with narrowed eyes. Her expression smooths out as soon as he looks at her and her lips curve into a smile again. “I think I met your friend a few days ago. Brunette, moles?” She nods when Scott doesn’t answer and takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, there was something strange about him - you too, come to think of it,” she squints at him dramatically. “He seemed almost . . . foreign.”

Scott clears his throat awkwardly when it becomes clear that she’s waiting for an answer. “Uh. Yeah. We’re from California.”

Allison smiles. “Right. Bea- Beacon something?”

“Beacon Hills.”

“That’s right. Never heard of it, myself, but you know what? Your . . . friend seemed to think I’d been there. Convinced of it, actually. Can you tell me why that is?”

Scott shakes his head slowly. “No idea.”

“Really?” Allison’s nostrils flare and she slams down her fork, making Scott flinch at the sudden clatter. “Why is it then that the pair of you seem to know so much about me? Before you two turned up _no one_ here knew my name. No one has called me that for _years_ , much less knew about my father.” Allison’s face is slowly turning red, her nails digging into the table top. She leans forwards across her plate and glowers at him. “Who are you?”

Scott screws his eyes shut, tries to stop the automatic shift brought on by the intense stench of anxiety from a loved one.

“Look at me!” Allison slams her hands down, catching the edge of her plate as she does so, cracking it between her palm and the table. The scent of her blood fills the air and Scott’s eyes fly open in surprise.

He shifts. He can’t help it. The last time he smelled her blood was when it was pouring all over him. He feels his claws lengthening. His eyes start to glow.

Allison reels back as though she’s been struck. She stares at him - catches sight of his fangs and scrabbles out of her chair, slips on a rug and almost falls.

Scott closes his eyes and tries to control his heart rate. He shakes his head and tries to retract his claws, but all he can smell is the scent of Allison’s fear and his heart keeps hammering on.

“What are you?” Allison whispers from the other side of the room. She seems frozen in place - barely seems to notice the blood dripping down her hand.

Scott can’t look at her. He can’t control his breathing. He hasn’t been this out of control of his shift in a long time. He can’t be here any longer. It’s not doing any good. He has to get out. He yanks his hands, feels them catch on the cuffs and growls. He yanks again, feels his shift complete as he pulls free, the cuffs springing apart and falling to the floor.

Scott runs for the door and pulls it open, feels the hinges give way easily as it breaks apart. He doesn’t care. He just runs through, down the stairs he finds outside. He barges through the next door he comes across, feels the wood splinter around him and stumbles into a wide hallway, lockers lining it up and down.

He can hear Allison behind him, quick short breaths as she chases him. He hears the click of a pistol.

Before he can even react the shot comes, loud as anything, deafening and shocking in its suddenness. Scott freezes. He turns and looks at Allison, hovering by the door, gun pointed straight at him. Her mouth is open in surprise and for a moment they just stare at each other.

Another shot. Then another. The rapid fire of a machine gun. Screams. Scott jolts and turns his head to the right. Somewhere else. Outside. There’s a fight happening.-

Allison hesitates, her gaze turning from him to when the gunfire is coming from, her finger twitching on the trigger.

Scott runs. There’s a set of double doors at the end of the hall. He runs for them and then feels his leg shoot out from under him as another shot rings out. He tips and crashes to the floor, rolling to stare as Allison advances towards him, her gun smoking. She fires.

Scott feels the shot go through his shoulder. Then another barely inches from his heart. He can’t move as Allison, now barely a metre away, aims squarely for his head.

* * *

A hand on Stiles’ shoulder pulls him to a stop. The outer walls of the school loom up ahead of them, easily visible beyond the broken treeline.

Craning his neck backwards Stiles can see the orange glare of the fire on their tail.

Stiles scans the area ahead, but can't see any trace of the rest of Rick’s group. “Where's Rick?” he asks. “Shouldn't they be here already?”

The hand on his shoulder tightens. “Hold on,” Glenn murmurs. “Quiet.”

Stiles listens. Raised voices sound distantly from the school. Shouts. “Is that-”

There is the unmistakable crack of a shot. Stiles gapes. Glenn and Daryl freeze next to him.

“Shit.” Glenn pulls out his gun and checks the ammo in a smooth motion. “Rick's already inside.”

Daryl barrels forward without waiting, his already loaded crossbow settled evenly in his hands. Glenn swears and takes off after him at a run.

Stiles, at a loss of what else to do, follows. This wasn't the plan. They could be walking into anything if they go into the school. Which was why the plan was to use the fire to drive the Highwaymen out. But now? Even supposing they aren't running straight into a trap, the fire is traveling too fast to make entering a closed building anything less than a suicide mission.

Stiles drops his crutch and breaks into a run.

* * *

The doors at the end of the hall spring open with a bang. Allison jerks her gun up and fires that way instead.

Scott takes advantage of the distraction and swings his leg sideways so that he catches Allison in the backs of the knees.

Allison falls gracelessly, her arms swinging wildly, sending her gun spinning across the floor.

Scott sees the spray of bullets travel as if in slow motion. He hears the rumble distantly and watches in horror as the bullets explode into Allison's torso one by one, making her body spasm.

Scott shouts. No - he roars, turning to see who fired the gun. Michonne fills the doorway, both hands braced on an automatic rifle which is now pointed directly at Scott. She is staring at him with absolute horror in her eyes.

Scott looks back at Allison - sees her eyes wide and lifeless and he screams. He slams his fists down onto the floor - feels the stone crack beneath them - and screams again. This can't be happening again. It just can't. Not again. Not when he'd just got her back.

Scott feels the shift seep through him as tears fill his eyes. Slowly his howls change to short, stuttering sobs and his fangs and claws give way to their human counterparts.

Through it all Allison's body lies there, leaking blood. Scott turns away from her, not wanting to see. Not again.

When he looks up again Michonne is gone from the doorway. Scott shakes his head, trying to clear it. Trying to concentrate. He can’t seem to stop crying. He raises his hands to rub his eyes, then realises that there is an even spray of blood across the palm of his left hand. Allison’s blood. He rubs the blood off onto his jeans. Then he feels sick and tries to rub the blood out of the jeans. The stain stares up at him tauntingly.

Scott stands up abruptly. He can’t sit here any longer. He pauses to listen, feeling distantly surprised when he realises he can no longer hear gunfire. In a daze he pushes himself to the doorway Michonne had disappeared from, and out into the daylight.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaits him there. There is blood everywhere. Scott can see the children all over the courtyard, lying unmoving on the ground. His eyes are drawn to a young asian girl slumped over a couple of metres to his right. Her eyes are wide and glassy. Her dead hands are wrapped around a gun far too big for them.

“No,” he whispers. He doesn’t understand. They were only children. What happened? He raises his head and looks around, his eyes eventually landing on one of the only people still standing. Rick’s arms are wound around his son’s shoulders tightly. He is shaking. Scott can’t see his face.

Scott’s moving towards Rick and Carl before he can really think about it. He reaches out and wrenches them apart. Rick reacts seemingly automatically, yanking out a knife and holding to to Scott’s chest. Scott ignores the knife. “What happened?” he tries to say, the but the words come out almost soundlessly, so he tries again. “What.” He coughs. “What happened?”

Rick pulls the knife away slightly and looks at him, slightly unfocused. Carl abruptly pushes his father backwards and steps in between them. “Scott. You’re hurt. Are you shot?”

Scott blinks down at him, then down at his chest. He can’t remember. He can’t remember if the blood is his or . . . Scott shakes his head and grabs at Carl’s shoulders. “No. What happened?”

“We didn’t know.” Rick’s voice is gravelly and startling from where he is hidden behind Carl. “They were so _young_.”

“Dad!” Carl snaps. “Stop it.” He twists back to face Scott. “Sit down, take your shirt off. I need to look at you.”

Scott stares at him incredulously. “They’re _dead_. What the fuck? They’re _dead_. What’s wrong with you?”

Carl slaps a hand against Scott’s chest. Scott cries out and jerks away, feeling the pain tangibly in a way he wasn’t aware of it before. Carl waits a moment and steps closer again. “Do you want to survive or not? _Sit down_.”

“Scott?”

Scott's head snaps round as he recognises Stiles’ voice. Stiles is standing in an opening in the courtyard wall. His clothes - the ones Scott had picked out for him only yesterday - look like he's been wearing them for weeks. Stiles himself looks gaunt and exhausted and it's so startlingly similar to how he looked after the nogitsune that Scott wants to cry.

“Stiles,” Scott gasps out and starts towards him. Stiles meets him halfway, his right leg dragging awkwardly behind him as he walks. He collapses into Scott as soon as they're within touching distance and Scott wraps his arms around him.

Scott holds him until Stiles’ heartbeat has slowed and steadied against his skin. Eventually he pulls away slightly and gives Stiles a careful once-over. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Stiles bites out, digging his fingers into Scott's skin. “You left me, dude! You just left!”

Scott lowers his head. “I'm sorry. I swear I didn't mean to. It all just happened so fast.”

Stiles’ breath catches. “You're hurt. Are you okay?”

Scott shrugs. “I'll be okay.”

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. “That's a lot of blood, dude. Like a lot a lot.”

Scott winces. “Take a look around, Stiles.”

Stiles looks around. Scott watches as he sees a body of a little girl. Then as he sees another. And another. “Oh my god,” Stiles breathes, the blood draining from his cheeks. “Oh my-” he collapses completely then, legs falling out from under him as graceless as a baby deer. Scott lets him fall. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,” Stiles whispers.

Scott closes his eyes, tight. “So it was you. You-” his voice catches. “You helped them do this?”

Stiles looks up at him in horror. He shakes his head wildly. “No - no, I swear, this wasn't meant to happen. The fire was meant to drive them out so we could rescue you - not this! I swear I didn't know they'd kill the kids. It wasn't meant to go this way.”

Scott can't look at him. “You knew about Allison too, didn't you?” He knows the answer but he has to ask anyway.

Stiles is crying now. He nods, up and down, up and down. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Scott breathes in a deep, shuddering breath. “Fuck. Fuck, Stiles . . .” He wipes his eyes. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Oh, god, oh god . . .” Stiles climbs shakily to his feet. Scott looks at him and follows his gaze to one of the bodies. When Stiles makes as if to go over, Scott wraps an arm around his waist and drags him in, bodily.

“Don't.”

Stiles gives in easily and shoves his face into Scott's neck. Scott cups the back of Stiles’ neck with his hand and keeps him there. God, he needs this. He just needs to stay like this and everything will be fine. Unfortunately he can't. Something strong fills the air. Something pungent and familiar.

Scott stiffens and sniffs. “Stiles . . . What did you say about a fire?”

Stiles jerks backwards. “Shit. We have to go. Now. I don't know how far behind us it is.”

Scott grabs his hand. “Okay. Let's go.”

Stiles hesitates. “What about . . .” He glances over Scott's shoulder.

Scott doesn't bother to look. “No. Let's just go. Can we just go?”

Stiles searches his face keenly. Finally he gives a slight nod. “But - Alli-?”

Scott shakes his head. “No. She's-” he can't say it, but Stiles understands anyway.

“Okay.” They walk together out of the courtyard, out of the school. Back into the woods. The fire isn't easily missable. It's moving fast. The roar is loud in Scott's ears.

Stiles tugs him away. “Come on. Only one way to go.”

Scott looks at Stiles and nods. Stiles leads and he follows, hands tangled between them in some indescribably complicated and meaningful way.

Together they disappear into the woods.


	14. Rest Day

Stiles wakes up with Scott's arms around him, Scott's voice soft and rumbling in his ear. “Stiles? Shh. Wake up, Stiles. It's just a dream.”

Stiles is sweating. Trembling. He brings a hand up to grasp at Scott's arm, where it's braced against his chest. A dream. Nightmare, probably. But no . . . he remembers now. Not a nightmare. Lydia.

“Stiles?” Scott shifts against him, becoming more alert as he observes and catalogues Stiles’ vitals. “What's wrong?”

Stiles exhales, long and slow. He licks his lips then rasps, “Lydia.”

Scott sighs, breath gusting against Stiles’ neck. “Not a nightmare?”

“No,” Stiles whispers.

Scott's arms tighten around him. “That's good. You had three tonight already.”

Stiles doesn't remember. “Did I wake you?”

Scott sighs again. “No,” he says honestly. “I haven't really slept.”

Stiles says nothing. He twists in Scott's arms, turning to face him. Scott's hair has fallen around his eyes. He's got stubble coating his jaw. It makes him look like a delinquent. Stiles probably doesn't look much better.

Scott retracts one of his arms to push his hair out of his face. He looks at Stiles, forehead creasing into a frown. “You look awful.” Stiles shrugs. Scott traces his fingertips gently around Stiles’ jaw. “You look like a criminal,” he observes.

Stiles snorts. “I was just thinking that about you.”

Scott moves his hand down to Stiles’ hip, his fingers curling around the bone. Stiles’ breath catches. “So what did Lydia say this time?”

Lydia. Right. Stiles closes his eyes in annoyance. He fights his body's impulse to just melt into Scott's touch. He frowns and tries to remember the dream. “Liam was with her this time, I think. I didn't see him, but I could feel-” he shakes his head. “I don't know. Maybe I'm imagining things. But I think he was there. With Lydia.”

“Did they say anything?”

Stiles’ mouth curves into a wry smile. “Anything useful, you mean? Not really. Lydia was calling my name.” He wraps a hand in the front of Scott’s t-shirt. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what they want me to do.”

Scott’s fingers stroke lightly on Stiles’ hip. “You don’t have to. I’m here too, Stiles. We’re in this together.”

Stiles smiles again. “Didn’t you say the other day that you don’t know how to help?”

Scott pulls him closer, his hand on Stiles’ hip moving in larger circles. Stiles stares at him. He stares into Scott’s beautiful brown eyes, so solemn in the morning light. He wants to kiss Scott so badly. He wants to lose himself in Scott’s mouth and forget the world around them. He wants to curl up in Scott’s arms and let him take care of everything.

Stiles leans in, mouth inches away from Scott’s, breaths pooling between them in synchronised rhythm. He leans in closer, tries to kiss him, but Scott pushes him gently back. He won’t meet Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles pulls away completely, flopping on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Disappointment and embarrassment clutch at his gut in an almost tangible way. He can’t believe he misread Scott so completely.

After a moment Stiles feels the mattress shift under him as Scott gets up. He hears Scott get dressed and cross to the doorway where he pauses for a moment. Stiles can’t look at him.

Scott clears his throat. “I’m going to see if there’s food in the kitchen.” Stiles doesn’t answer and Scott leaves, disappearing into the depths of the house.

Stiles closes his eyes and wills the world to go away. Scott is the only thing he has in this world. He can’t afford to push him away. He _needs_ him.

He wants his dad.

Stiles turns over to face the doorway Scott disappeared through. He can hear him opening cupboards and moving things around. He can’t hear anything else.

They found the house walking away from Madison. Stiles isn’t sure how far they walked, or how long it took them, but it’s far enough he doesn’t fear the fire catching up to them. Or Rick finding them.

He feels tears well up in his eyes, hot and wet. Stiles claps a hand to his mouth trying to keep quiet as he begins to sob. He doesn’t mean to cry, and he’s not sure for the exact reason of it - but he can’t stop himself. He just feels so helpless. And he’s frightened. He’s frightened of the friends they made. He’s frightened of the things they did. He’s frightened of what will happen if they find them.

Stiles shakes, tears rolling down the side of his face, covering his nose, which is running too. He tries to wipe his face clean with his sleeve, but the tears won’t stop coming. He feels hot and disgusting. He wants Scott to hear him and come back and comfort him. He wants the faces of dead children to stop staring at him every time he closes his eyes.

In the end it’s inevitable that Scott hears him, Stiles’ sobs growing louder and more out of control. He is practically hyperventilating. Scott does come back. He kneels by the side of the bed and reaches out for Stiles, face crumpling in distress.

Stiles buries his face in Scott’s shoulder, distantly aware of the way he’s soaking his t-shirt in snot and tears. He doesn’t care. He just leans into Scott’s hard torso and waits until Scott’s arms are wrapped around him again.

Scott leans his jaw into the side of Stiles’ neck. He presses a kiss there. “Stiles,” he mumbles. “Stiles, Stiles.” Another kiss. “Please don’t, Stiles. Please, please. Stiles.”

Stiles stops crying gradually, becoming ever more aware of the way his snot and tears are everywhere. “Oh god,” he mutters, pulling away slightly. “That's disgusting.”

Scott reaches behind him and grabs a handy box of Kleenex. The top tissues are covered in dust but the rest are all right. Stiles wipes at his face until it's no longer mostly liquid, then looks up at Scott.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says awkwardly. He's done a lot of embarrassing things in front of Scott, but that has to have been one of the worst.

Scott looks sad. “I get it. And I'm sorry for - you know. Pulling away. Before.”

Stiles groans and buries his head in his arms. “Oh, dude. Can we not talk about that? Can we just not?”

“Okay,” Scott mumbles, strangely reluctantly. When Stiles finally looks up again, Scott is gazing out the window, a contemplative frown on his face. He smiles when he notices Stiles looking. “So what are we doing today?”

Stiles reaches down the side of the bed to find the fabric bag he'd dumped there last night. He pulls out the book. “I guess I'll try and see if I can get anything useful out of this. You?”

Scott shrugs. “Do you want breakfast now?”

Stiles smiles wryly. “That depends. What have we got?”

Scott manages to rustle up bottled water, canned fruit and three unopened boxes of Lucky Charms.

They eat on the front stoop, early morning sunshine warm on their skin. There's a dirt track running through the trees up to the house, but from what Stiles can remember the road is about fifteen minutes away. He feels oddly safe here, secluded, with Scott by his side. Stiles finishes a whole box of Lucky Charms off by himself, gulping down stale water between every other dry, sugary mouthful. Scott seems to prefer the fruit. He eats two cans before Stiles brings up rationing, and they look at each other guiltily.

Then Scott shakes his head. “We'll just have to get home soon, then. Won't we?”

Stiles groans. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I can't wait to eat some fresh vegetables. A balanced meal. Force-feed dad some kale.”

“Maybe we haven't even been gone that long to them. Maybe it's only been a couple of hours. Like Narnia.”

Stiles snorts. “Maybe. Would sure make me feel better.”

“Unless we come home with old man beards and they try to kill us because they don’t know who we are.”

Stiles squints at Scott’s scruff speculatively. “I'm not sure dude. Probably more like baby fluff. I'm not sure you have the capabilities of growing an actual beard.”

Scott smiles, ducking his head cutely.

Stiles opens _MCreatures_ and starts reading it from the beginning. As it's the only book he has, he might as well be thorough.

Scott walks while he reads - walks around the perimeter of the house, walks along the path.

Stiles keeps half an eye on him as he reads. He's not sure what Scott's angle is, exactly - if he's making sure they're safe, or trying to find something they can use - but maybe he's just trying to keep himself busy. Scott exploring farther out, out of ear shot isn't even brought up, let alone discussed. Stiles is pretty sure Scott needs proximity as much as him right now.

Stiles takes a break for more Lucky Charms and a can of peaches at noon and retreats inside out of the considerably hotter sun. Scott trails inside after him like a lost puppy. He picks apart the kitchen cupboards and comes up with a hidden bottle of vodka. After a moment of exchanged, dubious looks, Scott tips it down the sink. Temptation to get plastered is the last thing they need.

Stiles takes his book to the living room to continue reading, and after a minute of looking lost, Scott goes upstairs. He comes down an hour later with a bundle of clothes and other things like scissors, a first-aid kit and a compass. He spreads them all out on the living room floor. Then he goes and gets all of the kitchen knives and the remaining food and water.

By the time the daylight has started to fade Stiles has finished his book - he’s read every chapter, every footnote - and Scott has packed a rucksack with pretty much everything he found in the house he thought they might have a use for. It’s much too heavy for Stiles to carry. He just hopes the weight of it won’t hinder Scott too much.

It’s while they’re sat in the kitchen, finishing off the last of the Lucky Charms (seriously, the taste has really lost its appeal at this point) that Scott has an idea.

“Hey-” Scott starts, looking startled. “Lydia’s been talking to you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Scott. I’m aware.”

“No, but - _she’s been talking to you_!” Scott drops his spoon excitedly (because apparently dry cereal still requires a bowl and a spoon) and turns to face him. “So why can’t we talk back to her?”

Stiles considers this. On one hand it makes sense - on the other . . . well. There's a reason he didn't think about it properly before: he has no idea _how_ Lydia's been communicating with him. Or trying to, anyway. He shakes his head, “I don't know, Scott. I wouldn't know where to start.”

Scott frowns. “Well . . . why Lydia? Why is it her talking to you? Why not Deaton? He knows magic.”

Stiles purses his lips in thought. “Maybe it's something to do with her banshee powers?” Then again, it's not like they're dead, or Lydia was banshee-screaming at him. Or . . . “Holy shit!”

“What?” Scott looks up hopefully.

“Well - we blinked out of existence in our world, right? Don't dead people do the same thing? What if we're not in an alternate universe right now? Maybe this is . . . an afterlife! And that's why she can talk to us. We're dead!”

Scott looks unimpressed. “I don't know, dude. Don't you think that's a little far-fetched? Anyway, this definitely isn't heaven. And I'm pretty sure neither of us have done anything bad enough to deserve an eternity of whatever this is.”

Stiles slumps. “You're right. That was a dumb idea.”

Scott shrugs. “Maybe not all of it. Our world thinks we're dead, right? So Lydia is talking to us like dead people.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “Maybe. But it doesn't exactly help.”

Scott is silent for a long moment. “What if,” he starts tentatively, “what if all we need to get back . . . is just to die? Here. Like Inception.”

Stiles sets his jaw. “Like we're gonna risk that,” he snaps.

Scott gets up and puts his bowl in the sink like he's planning to wash it up later. He looks out the window at the grey light of dusk. “I didn't find a flashlight,” he murmurs. “We need to make sure we've got everything we need before it gets completely dark.”

“Don't you have wolf vision?” Stiles asks grumpily. But he does as Scott suggests and by the time the house is cast in shadows too dark to see in they are both tucked up in bed with the rucksack of supplies and Stiles’ book within easy reach.

Stiles goes to sleep with Scott's warmth at his back and their hands clasped together loosely against his chest. He dreams of Lydia.


	15. Purple Light

_Lydia is sitting, swinging her legs, on a large, wooden crate in an oddly familiar warehouse. She is glaring at him. "I swear to god, Stiles," she bites out, "if I come all this way only to find that the two of you have _wandered off_ I am going to be so pissed off. What do you do when you’re lost in the woods, Stiles? You stay put and wait for the grown-ups to find you."_

Stiles blinks awake. He gapes. "Oh my-" he flails and whacks Scott in the face. "Oh my god, Scott! Scott!"

Scott groans. "Stiles, you are the _worst_ person to sleep next to. What's wrong with you?"

Stiles sits up. It's still dark outside, shadow-y and grey. He can just make out the pale shape of Scott's face against the dark pillows. "Lydia. I think she's here. In the warehouse."

Scott sits up next to him. "Here? As in this world?"

Stiles nods vigorously. He laughs slightly hysterically. "All this time we were trying to figure out how to get back - and they were coming to rescue us!"

Scott takes his hand and squeezes tightly. "Just Lydia? She knows how to get home?"

"Yes," Stiles smiles. Then he frowns. Just Lydia? "Oh, shit - what if she gets hurt, or runs into zombies, or - we have to get back to the warehouse! Now!"

Scott chuckles softly. "Lydia's not stupid. She'll be fine. Don't worry." But he stands up anyway and pulls on his jeans and a sweatshirt he must have found in the house.

Stiles dresses next to him and steals some thick socks from a drawer to wear under his walking boots. They're so much nicer than Glenn's.

Scott grabs the rucksack and buckles it around his waist securely. He looks at Stiles. "All set?"

Stiles nods. They exit the house silently, as though trying not to wake anyone. Once outside they stop, Stiles eyeing the dark path looping through the trees, back to the road. "Do we even know how to find the warehouse?"

Scott smiles and takes his hand. "I've got a pretty good idea."

* * *

There is a stitch in Stiles’ side, his lungs are burning, but his feet beat steadily in time with Scott's next to him.

Scott is still holding his hand, and Stiles has become increasingly aware that that point of contact is the only reason he can run at all. He doesn't want to look down - see whether fresh blood has leaked through his pants.

They stop when Stiles bends over double, gasping. Scott wrestles his backpack off and sinks to the ground leaning against a nearby tree. Stiles collapses next to him.

“Fuck,” he groans out, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “How far was that? I'm dying!” He isn't though, not really. There is still no pain, so at the moment all he's feeling is an abstract sort of discomfort.

Scott shrugs and digs a bottle of water out of the backpack. They sit, trading sips until the bottle is empty. Scott holds the bottle afterwards and frowns at it intensely. After a moment or two he stuffs it back in the bag and Stiles hides a smile. Even in a zombie apocalypse Scott won't litter.

Stiles sneaks a hand inside the rucksack and tries to find something edible.

Scott stands up again a little while later when Stiles feels like he's just about to drop off to sleep. “We should get going.”

Stiles makes a face, but gets up too. The trees are thin enough here that when he squints to the left he can see an orange glow on the horizon - presumably whatever is left of the fire he started. He shudders a little at the sight of it and what it represents.

Scott tangles their hands together, which is remarkably less pleasant than earlier because Stiles’ palms - and Scott's too, presumably - are practically oozing sweat.

Stiles doesn't dwell on it though, because Scott is dragging him forward and soon his body is making far more important complaints involving pain and exhaustion.

Stiles doesn't ask how Scott is leading them in a seemingly unerring path towards their destination without even a flicker of hesitation. He, himself is so far turned around he isn't even sure he could find the way back to the house anymore. It's a little annoying, but as long as he slides this into the drawer of ‘Cool Things Scott Can Do Now That He's a Wolf Man’ in his head, his jealousy and general feeling of helplessness is fairly manageable.

They stop again when the sun is directly overhead, and again a short while later. At least Stiles assumes it's a short while because he's been running on empty for some time now - but it feels plenty long enough to him.

He drinks and eats and eyes Scott's scary intent expression. “How far do you think now?” He asks when they stand up again.

Scott cocks his head to the side. “I don't think it's actually all that far from here. We'll get there before dark, probably.”

Stiles scowls. “It won't be dark for hours. You call that ‘not too far’?”

But Scott is wrong, anyway, because it can't be much more than an hour later when he starts sniffing the air. “Oh my god,” he whispers. He tugs on Stiles’ hand eagerly. “I can smell them! I can smell pack!”

Stiles feels his own heart swell with excitement and relief. They quicken their pace again and grin at each other. “Who do you smell? Lydia?”

“And the twins. Lydia and the twins.”

The twins. Stiles remembers when Ethan and Aiden meant fear and death to him. He doesn't feel that now - no, he is relieved. Because while the twins are big bad and terrifying, they are exactly the sort of people who can handle this world. They would take out threats like Rick without even blinking. Unlike Scott. Stiles hates himself a little for thinking it because he knows Scott has always been looking out for him, but somehow the thought of them being here makes him feel safer than he feels now, holding Scott's hand.

The warehouse comes into sight suddenly and all at once through a break in the trees. Stiles hasn't been so happy to see a decrepit, half-ruined building in his life. He knows it's the same warehouse. He knows somehow, though it's bigger and far less deteriorated than he'd been expecting.

Scott let's go of his hand and sprints forward, leaving him behind. Stiles, gasping on behind, watches him barrel through a small door and disappear inside.

When Stiles eventually gets there and sways through the entrance, he is expecting to see Lydia and the twins all entwined with their alpha, their happy, beaming smiles looking back at him.

What he sees is Scott standing alone in the middle of the warehouse, shoulders tense and shaking. He turns and shoulders past Stiles, back outside again, breaking into a run.

Stiles looks around. There is a mess of junk and broken crates all down one wall. At the other end is what looks like rubble from the roof, which has caved in. There is no sign of Lydia. There's no sign of anyone.

Stiles sags down to sit on the floor, leaning back against the wall. His eyes lock on the very crate he had seen Lydia perched on last night. He is confused. Surely they hadn't wandered off? Not when Lydia had sent him such a scintillating message about doing just that. So where are they?

Scott comes stomping back in after a few minutes looking cross and agitated. “I can smell them. But I can't hear them. It doesn't make any sense. They _were_ here. But I can't find any scent worth tracking. It's all a couple of hours old.”

Stiles looks up at him but doesn't say anything. He feels weary all of a sudden. Exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. He can't describe how very much he doesn't want to be doing this right now.

Scott doesn't sit down next to him. Instead he spends several minutes carefully checking every corner of the warehouse, nose first. Then he goes back outside and doesn't come back for a long time.

Stiles closes his eyes. When he opens them again he sees Scott fluffing up blankets in a space on the floor amongst all the crates. He waves Stiles over when he notices that he is awake.

When Stiles stumbles over he sees that Scott has somehow gotten a fire going from some of the broken crates. Wonderful heat sears into his skin.

“Dude,” he says gratefully, sinking down into the nest Scott's made. The blankets are a poor barrier between him and the concrete floor, but they are clean and soft.

Scott gives him a tired smile. “Yeah.” He hands Stiles an open can of beans. Stiles tips them into his mouth with hesitation. He's starving.

“What I wouldn't give for _meat_ ,” he groans.

“I'll catch a rabbit for you,” Scott says, completely seriously and Stiles chokes.

“Oh god, no. Don't do that. I like my meat in plastic packaging from a store, thanks very much.”

Scott smiles. Stiles takes a moment to just stare at him. Then he smiles back and lies down, facing the fire. The blankets are _so_ soft. He groans and rubs his cheeks on them like a cat. “Where did these even come from?” he asks.

“They were in the bag.”

Stiles snickers. “I swear you're like Mary Poppins. Or - no - Hermione! You're totally Hermione! What else do you have in there?”

Scott huffs and pokes the fire. Sparks fly up. He leans back and looks down at Stiles intently. Stiles’ breath catches a little. He glances away, then back again because he can't make himself not look at Scott.

Scott leans down over him very slowly, coming closer and closer. Stiles doesn't move. He can't breathe. With both eyes wide open Scott very deliberately places one hand on Stiles’ cheek and then leans in to press their lips together. He sits up again after a moment and Stiles draws in a shaky breath, licking his lips.

Scott looks back at the fire, frowning. “I just wanted to show you that you didn't freak me out yesterday. But Stiles . . .” His voice is low and tired-sounding. “I'm not ready for anything like that yet. It's too soon.”

Stiles wants to protest that Allison died months ago - and they were over long before that - but he knows he can't. It wouldn't be fair. Not when the other Allison’s death just tore Scott in two, making the pain fresh and real again.

He reaches over and rests his fingers gently on Scott's knee. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I'll wait.”

Scott looks back at him and smiles a little sadly. He grasps Stiles’ fingers in his own. Together they turn and watch the fire again, listening to it crackle and pop. Stiles shouldn't be able to fall asleep so easily when it's probably barely evening, but he does all the same. He drifts into consciousness momentarily when Scott lies down beside him, but then he's gone again, sliding and slipping into dreams with Lydia's face in - but they are just dreams this time. Vague, pointless dreams.

* * *

Stiles wakes up to a sharp _crack!_ and something extremely heavy pressing down on his chest. The pressure disappears with a light “oops,” and he sits up to see Malia blinking down at him.

“Stiles!” she grins, falling to her knees and flinging her arms around his neck. “We've been waiting ages!”

Stiles gasps, tentatively hugging her back. “What the hell-?” He looks around and spots Liam hanging off of Scott's arm with a face-splitting grin, and Lydia standing a short distance away looking pleased. She smiles at him.

He gapes. “Wait, what? What’s happening? How did you guys get here? When - where did you guys go before? What happened?”

Lydia steps forward and offers him a hand. He lets her tug him to his feet. She smiles again and straightens his shirt. “You look horrible,” she observes.

Stiles frowns down at her. “Yeah,” he agrees faintly. He lets a finger trace the tired skin beneath her eyes. “So do you.”

Lydia shakes him off lightly. “Yes, well, that’s what comes of trying to save your ass for the past week. _Both_ of your asses,” she says, turning to Scott.

Scott meets her eyes looking slightly shell-shocked. His arm is wound tightly around Liam’s shoulders like he’s scared to let him go. He clears his throat. “Yeah. About that. Can you take us home, Lydia?”

Lydia’s smile droops slightly. Stiles shakes his head frantically. “No, what was that? What was that? Why are you not smiling? Keep smiling!”

Lydia bats at him. “Shut up, Stiles. This is serious. I can - I _can_ take you home. Both of you. Right now, actually.”

Stiles yells and throws his arms around her. “Oh my god, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear that. Oh my god, this is insane! Thank you!”

“Lydia?” Scott’s voice is just behind Stiles now and he releases Lydia to look at him. Scott’s face is serious, anxious even. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Lydia takes a deep breath and looks at Stiles, placing her hands gently on his arms. “Stiles. You need to tell me right now - did you experience any strange side-effects when you got transported here?”

Stiles blinks at her. Anxiety starts to gnaw at his insides. He coughs. “Um. Yeah, actually. I was - I went blind for a couple o’ days.”

Lydia closes her eyes tightly and her hands tighten on Stiles’ arms. When she opens her eyes again they are wet with unshed tears. “Oh,” she breathes, looking absolutely destroyed. “Oh, Stiles.”

Scott places a hand on Lydia’s, gently pulling her away from Stiles. “Lydia. What is it? What’s wrong?”

Lydia pulls free and steps back a few steps into Malia who is frowning angrily. Lydia swallows and then says clearly, “The statuette that transported you here in the first place was not designed for human use. I actually managed to find some old text on it about - about it being used on a human before. The text read that - that any temporary side-effects experienced after one use are very - extremely - likely to become permanent if the statuette is used again. Which means that if I take you back with us, Stiles - you’ll probably be blind. For the rest of your life.”

Stiles blinks. Then he laughs. He grins manically. “What? You're telling me that my options are staying _here_ in this _hellscape_ or going home and being permanently blind?” He laughs again, ignoring the startled looks he is receiving from Malia and Liam. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” he howls.

Scott's hand lands on his shoulder but he shakes it off violently. “No,” he snaps. “No.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking and then looks at Scott. “Well, you heard Lydia, man. You can go home! No repercussions necessary! So why don't you, huh? Go!”

“Stiles,” Scott begins tentatively, but Stiles cuts him off with a violent head shake.

“Go home, Scott.” Stiles can't be here anymore. He can't deal with this anymore. So he limps towards the door, pain tauntingly present and bangs his way outside. It's dark outside. The air is crisp and cool against his skin. The trees are rustling around him in the wind, but he can't hear anything else. Not that that's unusual here. God. He wants to just go _home_. He wants to go home, hug his dad and crawl into his own bed. He wants to fall asleep listening to traffic outside his window. He wants to go home and _see_. It's horrifically unfair that he might have to choose between his sight and home.

He wants to start walking, just get out of here for a while, but the pain shooting through his leg is intense. And even his good leg is aching from all the running yesterday. So he sits down instead, a little way from the warehouse, where he hopes the wolves will give him at least a little privacy from their stupid heightened hearing.

No one comes to find him for a long time. He is grateful for that, at least. Out here, alone, he can breathe a little. And, if not try to work through his dilemma, at least not let it swallow him in panic.

Scott does come out eventually, though. He sits down beside him quietly. “They've gone back,” he murmurs after a moment. “Apparently it really is that easy once they discovered how.”

Stiles closes his eyes and leans against him. He is so fucking grateful Scott didn't listen to him and leave.

They sky is lightening, giving way to dawn. They don't see the sunrise, but Stiles imagines it's somewhere behind the trees under a red patch of sky to the right.

Birdsong starts. Shockingly present in a way Stiles hasn't heard since they first got here. A robin darts down to the ground only a few metres away and they watch it, completely still as it searches for food.

Scott speaks for the first time in a long time, his voice slightly gravelly with tiredness. “You know there is another solution.”

Stiles blinks and sits up, frowning. Then he realises what Scott is going to say and he sighs. “You mean the bite? Yeah, Scott, I know. The thought has occurred to me.”

Scott's expression turns frustrated. “Why are you so against it? You've never wanted the bite - you've never even been _tempted_ \- and I don't understand what you find so distasteful about it that you've never even considered it properly.”

Stiles stares at the robin - further away now, but still close enough to hear. He thinks about it. Really thinks about it. The bite. It had turned Stiles’ life upside-down and he wasn't even the one who was bitten. It had given Scott speed, strength and popularity. It had given him pain, heartbreak and he has seen more death since than a front-line soldier.

But Scott is a good alpha. His pack is healthy and strong. Stiles has chosen to take the bad alongside Scott anyway, so really, what's stopping him from asking for the good to go along with it? But the very thought of it makes Stiles recoil, cringe away from even the consideration. It's horrible, but he thinks that if he were to become like Scott, a slave to the moon and the rules and chains of the supernatural - he'd spiral downhill so fast that he wouldn't be able to claw his way up again.

“I don't think I can,” he says hoarsely.

Scott's face darkens. “You'd choose blindness over becoming like me? Am I really that monstrous to you?”

“No - no, Scott,” Stiles reaches out a hand and brushes it insistently along Scott's arm. “You're not monstrous. You know I've never thought of you that way. That's not fair.”

“Then what is it?” Scott pleads.

“I'm not like you. That's not me. I can't - I can't . . . If you bit me then I wouldn't have a choice anymore. I'd be part of your world and I wouldn't be able to run away from it ever. I can't do that.”

“And if you go blind? That won't be a permanent change?”

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles snaps. “You think I have this all figured out? I don’t! Not at all! The thought of going blind again, even for a minute makes me so scared I can hardly breathe. It’s not fair! It’s not fair at all.” He takes a deep breath and ignores the hurt look Scott is throwing at him. “Just give me some time, okay? And then let me make my own decision.”

Scott is still for a moment, but then he gets up and walks away slowly. Stiles lets out a long breath and lies back down on the ground.

* * *

Lydia is back at noon with hot, home cooked pizza and a gentle smile for Stiles. “You dad sends his love. He-” but she breaks off and frowns. “He says the decision is yours - whatever you decide.”

Stiles frowns at her. “I'm coming home. No matter what, I'm not staying here. You know that, right?”

Lydia looks relieved. “He'll be glad to hear that. Then have you - you know. Decided?”

Stiles takes the pizza from her and digs in. It tastes like tomatoes and rosemary. He groans. “Me’wissa make 'ith?”

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Yes. She’s worried about your diets. Is Scott around? I have a message for him.”

Stiles gestures towards the door and stuffs more pizza into his mouth. He's never tasted anything so good. _God_.

Lydia comes back after he has demolished half the pizza and sits on a crate beside him.

Stiles licks his fingers and stares at her. “So how are you doing it?” At her quizzical look he gestures awkwardly. “You know. The stepping between worlds thing.”

Lydia folds her hands in her lap primly. “Like I told you. We found a record of the statuette in a book. It was remarkably thorough. “ _Lagus’ Compendium_?”

Stiles gapes at her. “What?! _Lagus’ Compendium_? I had that book here! Oh my god, what the hell!” He remembers it from the druid’s shop - he'd dismissed it because it had been written by an Egyptian about 800 years before the so-called Greek statuette could have come into existence.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “It's a very rare book, Stiles-”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles grumbles. “I still had it!”

Lydia looks at him strangely for a long moment before dismissing it completely. “It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. You would have needed an Arcan to put the spell into effect. Luckily we found one.”

“I had an Arcan,” Stiles mutters. “But . . . well, she's a baby so . . .”

“What on earth have you been up to, Stiles?” Lydia demands. “We have been breaking our backs trying to get you out and you just stumbled across all the ingredients necessary to get home but you were too stupid to realise it?!”

Scott coughs from the doorway. “Everything all right?”

Stiles flushes, ridiculously embarrassed all of a sudden. If it turns out it really was his fault they didn't get home by themselves then he isn't sure he wants to share that with Scott. He glares at Lydia. “Absolutely. Pizza?”

Scott finishes off the pizza in large gulps and minimal chewing which is disgusting and not at all attractive. Stiles forgives him, though, because he is self-aware enough to know that that was him ten minutes ago.

Stiles turns back to Lydia. “So how did you find an Arcan?”

Lydia blinks and looks at him. “After you vanished,” she begins eventually, “the only thing we could do was to try and find out whatever we could about the statuette. Actually it didn't take that long in the end to find what we were looking for. As soon as we knew what it was and how it worked - where it had sent you - I started to try and work out a way of contacting you. It was all a bit hit and miss because I had to be asleep to do it, whilst holding onto a piece of you and - well, I had to learn how to direct my dreams. While I was doing that Deaton was going through all of his contacts trying to find an Arcan-”

Scott, who has finished eating, licks his lips and frowns at her. “Hold on, why did you need an Arcan? The statuette would just bring you here by itself, wouldn't it?”

Lydia looks at him scathingly. “We needed an Arcan so we could _get back again_ , Scott. Anyway, as I was saying - Deaton was asking around for an Arcan, but it was actually Chris who found him. He remembered a friend from France with a strange birthmark on his cheek-”

“A triangle within a circle,” Stiles nods, eagerly. “Right. That's what the baby had.”

Lydia gives him a withering look. “Yes. So, we sent Francois a plane ticket and after that it was all down to trying to _find you_ again. Because you wandered off.”

“You realise we would have died of thirst if we stayed here and waited around for you to rescue us, right? It took you a week to get your shit together, after all.” Stiles smirks at her triumphantly.

Lydia’s lips twist and then she says suddenly, “So you met Allison, and she stabbed you in the leg?”

Stiles feels a little shocked. That was the last thing he was expecting out of Lydia's mouth. He hadn't even realised Scott had told her. “Um. Yes,” he says, uncomfortable.

Lydia's face shadows for a moment, but she nods briskly. “Well, probably just as well I didn't meet her. And you met some other people here?”

“A group. We thought they were good people but then . . .” Stiles trails off, feeling his stomach clench. “I wish we hadn't met them. I actually got to know a couple of them. It sort of makes it worse, what they did?”

Lydia holds up a hand, looking disgusted. “You don't have to go into details. Scott explained last night. And whatever they did - it's not on you. Okay?” She stands up and straightens her jacket. “Now, when shall I come back?”

Stiles swallows and looks at Scott, who meets his gaze steadily. “Tonight,” he decides. Then, firmly, “I'd like you to take me home tonight.”

Lydia's expression softens and she steps forward a little to squeeze Stiles’ arm. “Okay. I look forward to it.” She pops out of existence a moment later and the two boys are left there, feeling slightly lost.

“So, tonight?” Scott asks hopefully. “You've decided what you want to do, then?”

Stiles shakes his head slowly. He isn't certain yet, but the promise of home is too sweet to put off for much longer. “No. Just - spend some time with me this afternoon?”

Scott sits up straighter and smiles at him. “I can do that.”

* * *

By the time Lydia comes back again Stiles feels like his stomach has gnawed a hole in itself. He knows what he's going to do, but he can't help second-guessing himself every other minute. He can't go back on this decision. Not ever.

Scott is by his side, the same as he has been all afternoon, a silent support Stiles is incredibly grateful for.

Lydia arrives alone again, but, “the pack is all waiting for us. Your dad too, and your mom,” she adds to Scott. “So. Have you decided?” she hesitates. “Are you ready?”

Stiles straightens, rolling his shoulders back. He nods. “Yes.” He smiles sadly at Scott. “I'm pretty sure you know what I'm going to say, dude.”

Scott inhales slowly and nods. “Yeah.” He takes Stiles’ hand.

Lydia looks between the two of them, calculating. “You've decided to risk it,” she surmises. “You don't want the bite.”

Stiles swallows. “You said it was more than likely, but you don't know for sure, right? If I do go blind,” he takes a deep breath, “we don't actually know if it will be permanent. I could get my sight back one day. Right?”

“It's possible,” Lydia says slowly, reluctantly, “but-”

“I've decided,” Stiles says firmly. “I'm going to risk it.”

Scott pulls on his arm until Stiles turns to face him. He places his arms around Stiles’ neck. “I won't leave you. Ever. If this happens, I'll be with you every step of the way, you know that? This is a promise,” he whispers. Then he leans in and Stiles just has time to close his eyes before Scott's mouth is covering his in the warmest _sweetest_ kiss he has ever had. “It's a promise,” Scott says again.

Lydia takes two steps forwards and Stiles takes one last look at the faces of his dearest friends before purple fills every corner of his vision in one last, resounding _flash_.

Then Stiles goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - it's done!
> 
> I really hope you liked it and I hope that I've answered all of your questions...
> 
> Also just for the record I love TWD and all the characters - really not trying to hate on them at all!
> 
> Thanks so much for all of your support and please leave me some feedback :)


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